Chrysochlorous
by janedethrone
Summary: Harry Potter was the boy who lost too much and now he lost his mortality to save a life. So he fled the world he loved. Following the direction pointed by Dumbledore, he began the journey to find Carlisle Cullen, only to be distracted by a real-life Aphrodite he met on his way.
1. Savior's Demise

**I owe you all, my readers, a huge apology for several things.**

**First, for such a long hiatus (**_**nine months). **_**I won't spout excuses, but it **_**was **_**due to my inability to manage my schedule well, shifting between college and writing. It came to the point where I put down the story off my mind completely. After months of my absence in writing, I had to reread this story and my mind began to see things in a completely different way.**

**I have no doubt that some of you have already lost interest in the story. And those who haven't, I'm sorry—I will quite possibly disappoint you again—I have decided to rewrite the story. This decision was absolute the moment I reread the story and saw the injustice I did to the characters. Harry too cowardly, his Master of Death affair amiss, Rosalie a caricature of who I've imagined her to be.**

**And while I can say that I'm deeply sorry for the long hiatus, I can't say the same for the decision to rewrite it. I've fallen in love with the new idea, and there is no turning back. I can only hope that you will feel the same.**

**That being said, if you decide to walk out on this story now, I won't hold it against you—thank you for your patience and earlier interest. For those who decide to give this new story a chance, sit back, relax, and I hope you can love the story as much as I do.**

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**Powerful!Harry. Seriously. I'm not going to details with his process of learning to use his MoD power to its full extent, but he will be able to use it well in the upcoming chapters, although there are things he still isn't able to do. Darker!Rosalie, since in this story she had never met Emmet in the woods. She was left to be reminded of her past every time she toyed with the idea of romance.**

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**WARNING. This story includes a depiction of Death, Life, Fate, sins and the rules of universe. It is purely a work of imagination. If you are an extreme religious who can't let your imagination play, then I advise you leave. If you are an extreme atheist who can't open your mind to the idea of death, afterlife, sins and so on - then I suggest you leave as well.**

**I do not mean to offend ANYONE of my readers. I want no hate toward the concept (criticism is NOT hate). I love this story immensely, and I hope that you do too.**

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**DISCLAIMER: The universes of Harry Potter and Twilight Sage belong to J. K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer respectively.**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing_ PhoenixFanatic999!**

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"_Many years from now_

_I know you'll hear me somehow_

_When our bodies free our souls_

_The places we will go"_

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**#1  
Savior's Demise**

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After the Second Wizarding War, England continued to be its own busy city, unaware of the fact that years before, they were on the verge of being massacred, if not for the work of the Chosen One. The Savior. The Boy-Who-Lived. Numerous titles and gifts were given to the Boy-Who-Lost-It-All, but nothing prevented him from shutting himself in a muggle apartment in the heart of London. The boy who left the world he loved because he loved it too much.

On that particular morning, a knock rang through his ever-quiet front door. His eyes opened in a flash, but he kept his body still.

"Harry?"

George Weasley's wary voice relaxed Harry's posture, though Harry made no move from his bed.

"Harry?" George called again. "Come on, you promised you'd come."

Harry rolled between the sheets, groaned, and reached sluggishly for the doorknob, revealing George with short, clean haircut that Harry hadn't seen on him since Bill and Fleur's wedding. It took Harry into a rail of flashbacks—sandy brown hair blurring together with red, brilliant smiles, loud music and swift dancing. Harry blinked quickly and smiled wryly, returning George's raised eyebrows.

"So this haircut is strictly for weddings, then?" Harry asked as he turned and fell against the couch.

George ignored him. "I see that you're not dressed."

"I don't plan on dressing up."

"Do I need to drag Fleur here?"

Harry shuddered. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, if that's what it takes," George shrugged, sitting on the edge of the couch. His eyes turned serious as he met Harry's. "You promised you'd come."

"I know."

"It's really important for her—"

"I know. I'm coming," Harry said. "But I don't plan on arriving early."

George scoffed. He stood and disappeared into Harry's bedroom and returned with custom-made suit which Harry had locked away for weeks.

"Such a nice suit," George sighed. "If it weren't for the fact that you're so short, I would've stolen it and worn it myself."

"Two inches," Harry grumbled as he got up. "You're taller than me by _two bloody inches_."

Harry snatched the suit away from George's grasp and went into his room. He could hear George turning on the television. It still seemed bizarre, at times, considering that he used to be afraid of looking at it. It changed four years after Fred's death as George had come to Harry's apartment, red-faced with alcohol and tear-stained cheeks. Harry had tucked him in on his sofa and had been about to turn off the muggle sitcom he'd been watching, when George'd told him he'd wanted to see it.

"You see, that's his type," George had said, gesturing to the dark-haired woman on the screen. "Brainy and perfectionist. The polar opposite of our joker selves. And just like them, he would try to hide it, just for the thrill."

The words _our joker selves _had felt like a knife through Harry's chest, but he hadn't wanted to turn George's first light talk about his dead twin with Harry's own bitterness. So he'd simply asked, "Really? That's his type?"

George had grinned. "Did you know that Fred had his eyes on Hermione?"

Both sadness and curiosity swelled inside of him as he'd answered a mild "No."

"The first girl that matched his type perfectly," George'd said, his eyes lost. "You see, we even set a series of pranks for Fred to woo her. You know, to imply that he fancied her. But then we noticed Ickle Ronniekins' crush on her and Fred called everything off. The designs of (those?) pranks that took us weeks to create—gone."

Harry had smiled. "He was a good brother."

"The best," George had agreed. "It was a good decision, though. Hermione and Ron turned pretty serious—remember the size of that ring? Took all of Ron's secret saving(s). In the end, it wasn't even used."

_A flash of red-hair. A splatter of blood. A mind-numbing cry. A green light, and then silence._

"Harry?" George's voice broke through his reminiscing. "You're taking an awfully long time, mate."

"Yeah, sorry."

Harry didn't know why he'd put this on hold for so long. It was a rather quick process; all he had to do was to remove his clothing, use _Scourgify, _put the suit on and mess with his hair. In the span of five minutes, he was already out of the door.

George gave him a rare, soft smile. The kind Harry knew was reserved for either Fred or Ron.

"You ready?"

Harry returned the smile easily. "The most ready I could ever be."

The journey to the Weasley's burrow was silent. George was absorbed with the news, while Harry's mind was at its own turmoil.

_How could he ever be ready for this?_

"The uprising is starting to get worrying, don't you think?"

Harry scoffed. "They're pathetic low lifes. Half of them are already caught, and the last one that attempted to take me on couldn't even aim right. They're desperate to revive Voldemort, but we both know there's zero chance of it happening."

George smirked. "It brings memories, hearing you talking like this."

All of the sudden, the Burrow was in sight. Harry mentally prepared himself. He prepared the practiced smile at the edge of his lips, ready to set upon old friendly faces. He relaxed his shoulders, foreseeing a lot of hugs and kisses, and his legs, foreseeing the inevitable dances. Most importantly, he prepared the cage inside of him, checking every second that it was locked and that he would not at all be visited with regretful misery tonight.

George gave him a light side-hug as they entered, and Harry walked a little more straightly.

It was as though they went through transition between two different worlds; one minute there was solitude, the next one everything seemed to be bursting—both literally and figuratively. There were several tiny fireworks already lit at the edge of the room, lighting up Mrs. Weasley's face as she recognized him and came over to pull him into a hug.

"We're so glad you're here, dear," She said kindly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Mrs. Weasley beamed, but George gave him a pitying side-glance which Harry ignored.

The first thought that he registered as he searched the room was that it was painfully similar to Bill and Fleur's. The location was exactly the same, the tent was identical, minus the difference of color—even some old decorations reappeared. The layout was also similar—food on the west, the arch on the south-east, the huge space on the middle for the groom and bride to have their first dance.

Then it became very easy to blur the present and the past. The moment Harry had nothing to do or say or listen, his mind drifted and replaced the present elements with those of his memories; Fred and George and the bridesmaids, Bill and Fleur's first dance, Ron and Hermione twirling awkwardly, Ginny's pretty smile to him from across the room…

Harry spent the next hour desperate to make himself busy with small talk. It was tedious at the same time as it was wonderful. It had been months—for some, years—since he had last seen the rest of the Weasleys, Fleur, Neville, Luna, Seamus, McGonagall, even Kingsley. There were few people that Harry saw regularly. George crashed his apartment whenever the ginger wanted. Harry still went for tea at Hagrid's occasionally. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly sentimental, he went to Hogwarts under the Invisibility Cloak and visited the house elves. He never visited Dobby, because the grave was too close to the Weasley's and Harry couldn't bear to show his grief to them—for they were once a family, but not quite anymore.

Harry smiled as he sipped his drink and observed his surroundings. He used to love these people; he was sure with every fiber in his being that he would die for them. Maybe he still would. But he had lost the connection that he once had with them—too enamored with slight chance of surviving to care about living. Too desperate in war, happy simply for the fact that they had a future, that he couldn't care less about what the future contained.

Eight, long years had taken him to this point. People accomplished a lot in eight years. For Harry—well, it wasn't as if he was completely out of things to do. He attempted a career in professional quidditch and played for the Chudley Cannons—Ron's favorite—for a while. If he allowed himself to be vain, he would even say he restored them to glory. It ended after three years of unbearable fame and the peaking need for solitude. For the next five years, he remained unemployed, burying himself in his apartment. To be honest, he couldn't remember anything worth-noting in that span of years.

"Harry."

Harry blinked. "What?"

George approached him carefully. "The bride wants to see you."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Really. You think you can handle that?"

"Yeah. Of course," He lied.

His mind reeled as he walked to her room. What could she possibly want from him? Right before the wedding, after five years of disregarding each other's existence?

The moment the bride's room door opened, the cage was unlocked. He was stricken with a pang of regret as he saw her—the most beautiful bride he had ever seen. Still, he smiled.

"Ginny," Her name felt weird on his lips. Foreign.

"Harry," She whispered, sounding as though she might burst to tears any moment. Harry took a step closer in alarm.

"Gin—what's wrong?"

"Nothing, really," She grinned, wiping the little beads of tears around the corner of her clear brown eyes. "I'm just... really happy to see you, is all."

"Really?" Harry couldn't help himself. "You're happy to see me?"

Ginny stopped smiling. "You're not?"

"No, well, I'm elated," Harry said. "No. That was a lie. To be frank, I don't know what I'm feeling. Or what I'm doing here. Or why you summoned me."

There was one long moment that all Ginny did was to look at him.

"You haven't changed at all," Ginny said softly. "I thought I'd be surprised with how different you'd look—but you didn't change at all. Not since I last saw you."

"Why did you call me here?"

Ginny seemed slightly taken a back.

"I..I called you here to be sure," She started. "I was having second thoughts about Dean and I thought that seeing you would solve it. I'm sorry. I know it sounds horrible."

"And?"

Ginny looked puzzled. "And?"

"Does it solve the problem? Seeing me?"

"Not at all," Ginny said quietly. "To be honest, I'm even more confused."

Harry shook his head and sat at the nearest chair. He gestured the chair opposite him, half-way across the room, but Ginny didn't take it. She slowly walked to him until they were only a step away and he was right in front of her hips. He recognized this setting with bitterness. It was something that they used to do, whenever he had an episode. He would rake his hair on the chair and she would come to his front and sit on his lap. Her arms would find him and envelop him in a warm hug. He would bury his face in her hair, smelling the sweet, sweet fragrance on her neck.

Of course, she did nothing of the sort. Harry blinked to banish the memories, and looked up to meet Ginny's shimmering eyes.

"If I ask you to ride with me to the sunset," She whispered. "Would you?"

The deepest, darkest part of him longed to hear these words. Yet now that he actually heard it aloud, his answer was certain. "You love him."

"What do you know?" She challenged. "We haven't spoken for years. Four years, one hundred thirty seven days, to be exact. How could you possibly know how I feel about him?"

"I—"

"And how could you know—that—that—I spent the last four years one hundred thirty seven days unable to stop thinking about you?" She demanded. "That even to the last seconds before my wedding, a part of me wishes that it's you standing at the altar, not Dean? That despite the fact Dean has been nothing but a perfect gentleman for me, it's still you that I want?"

Harry remained silent.

"That after all these years, despite me desperately wanting to, I just can't get over you?"

It wasn't that it was one-sided either. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't thought about her. At least every other day he would be reminded of her, wonder what she was doing... but nowhere near what she had just expressed.

He had stopped loving her long ago.

He couldn't give her the number of the days since the last time he loved her. Bloody hell, he didn't even remember how long they had parted. He hadn't even bothered to count. Loving her had been abrupt; like a quick, breath-taking Firebolt spin. Stopping was a gradual, numbing process.

"Dean is the one that loves you," Harry said as kindly as he could. "I don't. I used to, but then I stopped. But it doesn't change the fact that I care about you. I want you to be happy—and it won't happen with me."

Ginny started sobbing. Harry stood in alarm. He switched their places and forced her to sit. He knelt before her, so they could see eye-to-eye. "You're having pre-wedding jitters. It's fine. It's normal. The future with Dean is scary and that's why you cling to the past with me. But the Ginny I know is much braver than that. Ginny would wipe the tears, take a deep breath, and walk bravely to the altar. That's the Ginny I loved. And the one that makes Dean head-over-heels for her too."

Silence followed, but unlike before, it felt comfortable rather than painful. When Ginny finally looked up to meet his eyes, hers were full of tears, but she was smiling; a genuine, soft smile that Harry noticed only belonged to him. It was what Harry both hoped and dreaded to see.

That night, Ginny walked down the altar, hand-in-hand with a beaming Arthur. She proclaimed her vows to Dean without wavering, and kissed the groom sincerely. Harry had thought it would hurt—it did, but it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. The tight pain in his chest was overwhelmed with the Weasley's infectious joy.

As soon as their first dance of the couple ended, Ginny gestured for Harry to enter the dance floor. At first, Harry shook his head lightly, mouthing "I don't dance" and raised a glass instead, but Ginny took the liberty of pulling him to the dance floor. The act ignited a few chuckles, especially the ones who knew their history. Harry glanced at Dean. They were locked in a stare for one second, but before Harry could make out his thoughts, he'd turned away and invited Katie Bell for a dance.

"I'm quite sure George's outraged," Harry commented as they swirled around the room. "He'd been calling himself your favorite brother for years."

"This isn't the line for brothers."

"What exactly is this line, then?" Harry asked.

"The line of the two men I love most in this world," Ginny said softly. "Starts with Dean, ends with you. And not just tonight."

Harry stayed silent, although he knew perfectly what she meant. Back in Hogwarts, she had dated Dean first-until Harry took her away from him by stealing a kiss from her before his eyes.

"It ends with Dean," Harry corrected firmly. "Starts with Dean, then me, and then ends with Dean."

Ginny smiled painfully. "It ends with you both."

There was nothing he could say. He knew she wasn't trying anything. She was simply expressing what she had suppressed for years. She had been tied with Dean now-she knew that their door had been closed. Nothing could ever happen between them again.

The dance was quicker than he'd expected. Although he had dreaded it at first, he'd come to long for it after it ended. Once the music stopped, Harry pulled her into an embrace. He breathed her in and knew that it was a mistake—countless memories of her bombarded his mind, sweet and agonizing all at the same time. He released her with unavoidable guilt, smiled at her for one last time, and then left the party and his past behind.

"You did great," George said, once Harry returned to his flat. The ginger was slouching around as it was _his _apartment, a bottle of Firewhiskey in hand. He poured Harry a glass and continued, "There were times that even _I_ wasn't sure whether you'd run off together, but you did great."

Harry dropped his glass. "_What_?"

"No—no—you did fine," George assured as he waved his wand. Harry's glass reassembled itself and returned to Harry's hands. "I was talking about what happened in her room."

Anger came to Harry. It was supposed to be a very intimate moment; a secret between the two of them only.

"Don't get angry," George drawled lazily, although Harry saw a flicker of worry in his eyes. "What would you have me do? She's my only sister, you see. I had to prevent what would be the worst mistake of her life."

And as soon as it appeared, his anger depleted. Harry hung his head in shame. Some part of him wanted that to happen.

George shook his head, "Her worst mistake wouldn't be to run away with you. It depends on your answer. If both of you were in love and sure of what you want, I'd gladly plan your escape route myself. But if one of you isn't sure but you go for it—that's a mistake."

Harry scowled at the pity in George's eyes. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Sorry. It's just.. A part of me bet on you tonight."

Harry stared. The ginger's face was solemn, no trace of humor visible. "You're joking."

"Not this time. You don't see yourself and Ginny when you two were together—it was something out of a fairy tale. I despise sappy shit like that but what you two have was... _real._ All these years I honestly thought you'd somehow end up together. Even tonight. Dean's a nice bloke and all, but... he's not you. You're perfect for her."

"This really doesn't help, George."

George grinned. "I know. Which is why I brought this."

Harry took the bottle that George offered and downed the burning liquid. "_This_ does help."

Once George was asleep, Harry stood. He covered the ginger with a blanket and turned off the lights. He went for his room to lie down and try to sleep, but a black book at the furthest part of the bookcase caught his eyes. Smiling, Harry took the book off his case and flipped it open. It had been years since he last saw this. He strove to restrain from reminiscing as much as he could—a photo album was out of question. He had the mind to burn it before, but couldn't bring himself to actually do it.

_Cedric. Fred. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Snape. Dumbledore. Dad. Mom. Ron. Hermione. Ginny._

Their faces haunted Harry in those order; it started with the one death that stole his innocence—Cedric's—and ended with the dead promise of a lifetime companionship. It marked the beginning and the end of the Harry Potter that saved Britain. The Hero. The Savior. The Chosen One. The Boy-Who-Lived.

In a way, none of their deaths hurt that much anymore. He always felt a tug in his heart every time he thought about all of them, but not for Ron and Hermione. Even to this day, a part of him refused to believe it. They were the two out of three people that he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. Such a simple, careless, dangerous promise. Two left him for death and one left him for another man.

Harry shook his head. It wasn't fair placing blame on them for _being dead. _He was pretty bloody sure none of them wanted it. And it wasn't fair for him to blame Ginny either. She left because he didn't have anything to offer—he was a man with nothing to lose and to give.

In the end, again, the burden of blame was on him.

His train of thought paused when he took notice of the last photo of Ginny and him. It was at the old Grimmauld Place, right before he left it for good. Ginny was holding a cup of hot coffee and Harry was behind her, his arms around her shoulder. Both were smiling—momentarily forgetting their grief. It was astonishing how young Ginny looked at this photo; the ginger that Harry met yesterday had more angular face, sharper cheekbones, less light in her eyes when she smiled. This photo was taken after the war—shouldn't the present be cheerier than then?

And he looked at himself five years ago. He couldn't spot any difference at all, except for the light in his eyes. Harry scoffed lightly, and then turned the pages to the day of Hermione and Ron's funeral. Again, she was with him, this time with their hands intertwined. She looked more grim here, but younger. A hint of innocence in her body features tainted by the recent war. Beside her, he looked like Death himself; dressed in completely dark robe from head to toe, with dull, green eyes.

Harry frowned. He flipped the page back to the photo of him and Ginny in the Grimmauld Place—taken almost five years ago. He returned to the photo of his best friends' funeral. Then, he tossed them onto the bed and stood abruptly, reaching for mirror—finding the same exact face he found in the last two photos.

_Were__ his eyes deceiving him?_

He placed the three pictures on the bed. He blinked, looked at them from every angle, and blinked again. He diverted his attention to rummaging the papers. Harry used to hate it, but at the time, uncountable article about him made it easy to search for his pictures. Harry took the pages that contained his face, cut them, and stuck them across the wall. He didn't count the time—but all of the sudden, his wall was filled with his past selves throughout the last few years with identical faces.

Ginny's words rang in his mind. _You haven't changed at all._

That night, Harry couldn't sleep. It was beneficial, in a way, as he had no need to take the Dreamless Sleeping Potion just to escape darkness lurking in his own consciousness. Instead, he stayed awake all-night raking his brain. Dawn arrived and Harry was still in no luck; so he took one of his most recent photos, walked out of his room and nudged George awake.

"No," George resisted, facing away from Harry.

"George," Harry hissed. "Wake the hell up."

"No."

Harry gripped the edge of George's blanket and flipped it around, causing the ginger to fall with a thud.

"THE BLOODY HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!"

Harry forced three of his photos into George's face. He had folded all of them—so that the only thing that could be seen was his upper body. "Look at them. Guess the order."

The rage in George's face decreased slightly. "The order?"

"The order of the dates," Harry said impatiently. "The dates these photos were taken. Guess it."

George eyed him with disbelief and clearly was about to scream at him again but Harry cut him. "Guess it. Please."

Perhaps that George detected dread in his eyes or the slight tremor in his voice. He turned his attention to the three photos and inspected them carefully. "Well, this is rather hard."

Minutes passed, and George reached a decision. He showed the picture of him in the funeral. "Oldest." The most recent picture of him. "Mid." Him in Grimmauld Place. "Newest."

"Wrong," Harry said softly. "Guess again."

George turned frustrated. "I don't know. They all look the same. You took these photos in what, a week?"

Suddenly, Harry really needed to sit. He found the edge of the coffee table before his legs betrayed him. "Years. Eight years. I took these photos in eight years."

The change in George's face was disappointing. He shrugged, "Well, you age well."

"Too well!" Harry cut in, anger beginning to cut through the thick panic he was buried under. Once he realized he'd snapped at George, his anger evaporated, leaving exhaustion in its stead. "I guess I just need sleep. See you later."

He ignored George as he took a vial of the Dreamless Sleep Potion, until George snatched the tiny vial out of his hand. George looked troubled. "You're still drinking this? This shit destroys you."

He was too tired to argue with George, so he said nothing and went for bed.

* * *

For once, without the potion, he didn't wake up screaming. There were no nightmares, but he did dream of something he couldn't decipher. He woke up feeling confused, as though he just had a long talk, but a minute later all he could remember was a hooded face.

George pretended that Harry wasn't batshit insane last night. He prepared breakfast, cleaned the living room, and collected Harry's photos back to his drawer. Harry joked that he didn't need a girlfriend now that he had George. To that, George simply rolled his eyes and left.

Harry didn't leave the flat that day. The healers at St. Mungo told him that it wasn't a good idea to mop around the house, that he should busy himself as much as possible. They said it helped, and it did, only sometimes not enough. After all, eight years later, Harry still had those episodes at times. But that day, Harry didn't have the strength to leave his shell. So he stayed on his couch, still like a corpse, until he finally fell asleep again.

This time, he dreamed of voices.

He woke up with a jolt, but not with screams, so it was still better than he'd hoped. The voices that echoed in his mind made no sense. _Honor. Duty. Fate. Right. Power. Soul. _None of those words recalled anything to mind, but he couldn't keep his mind off it. The words reeled inside his head like an endless scroll for days and then weeks and then months, until finally, one day Harry forgot to take his usual dose of the Dreamless Sleep Potion.

This time, it didn't feel like a dream; it was as though he was transported into another realm. He would have panicked and disapparated away, only the strange familiarity of the landscape and curiosity anchored his feet to the land. In front of him was the hooded face from his earlier dreams. The hooded face had the build of a man, but for some reasons Harry couldn't think of it as a male. It wore a thin, oversized black garment that scattered around it as though it emerged from the land itself.

He had thought that the face was shadowed by the hood but he was wrong. The face was not _there. _There was nothing inside of the hood, and yet it spoke.

"_At last, you returned with a sound mind."_

Harry staggered. The voice was not from the hooded face, but was spoken into his own mind.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Death didn't answer his question. "_I have waited for this day to come. The day for the return of your resolve; the sign that you were ready to hold the burden of your duties."_

It had waited for him, apparently. Perhaps since the day he reunited the Hallows. Eight years, then. Eight long years passed and Death waited for his answer, even if Harry was never offered the question.

"_Eight was hardly a significant number. I was prepared to wait for hundreds—thousands, if I must."_

That was it.

The answer that Harry had been dreading. Ever since he noticed the freakiness of the photos, this question lingered in his mind. He had tried to banish it, marking it as impossible, but now the answer was confirmed. Harry suddenly felt the urge to fall and lie on his back. The world seemed as if it was crumbling. The world _was _crumbling.

Lightning struck across the sky with terrifying force. Rain dropped. The ground trembled, furious, and Harry fell.

"_We are currently in your mind_," Death's voice hissed. "_Your mind is self-destructing, but it still belongs to you. To stop it from falling apart is already in your power."_

It was no use; his mind couldn't take it, and he woke gasping for air.

* * *

_How does one deal with immortality?_

For some, immortality was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. For him, it was death sentence. Ironic, considering that was the one thing he couldn't get.

The second time Death appeared in his dream, he maintained the structure of his own mind. He could feel the ground shaking lightly with each step he took toward the unmoving entity.

"_Well?"_ Death's voice queried. "_Are you prepared, at last? To take your right as the beholder of my power?"_

Harry's entire body was trembling with fear, but his voice was steady. "No."

"_You delay, but time does not," _Death replied. _"Time has already done its duty to your mortal body."_

"I didn't say I wanted to delay," Harry retaliated. "I want to refuse."

"_Destiny has also done its duty. There is no rewriting it."_

"I don't care. I won't do it."

"_Denial has no purpose; you will—"_

"I'M DONE WITH THIS!" Harry screamed. "I'M DONE BEING WEAPON! I'M DONE WITH POWER AND I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT DESTINY SINCE IT DOESN'T GIVE MUCH IN RETURN WHILE WRITING MY LIFE EITHER!"

The sky exploded and so did everything in sight. As Harry fell, he briefly caught a pair of icy blue eyes watching him from under the hood, shining with something he couldn't understand.

* * *

The first person he told was George. His best friend stood there, unblinking, searching for lies on Harry's face. The minute George realized that Harry was telling the truth, he mumbled weak denials that turned quieter and quieter until the room was silent. After an hour or so, George proclaimed that _he _would find a way and that he would stay by Harry's side even if the world itself stopped aging. Harry simply smiled in appreciation, because at the very least, he believed the latter.

* * *

After the dream that changed his reality, Harry refused to stop drinking his dose. He vowed to never see Death again; to bury the knowledge so deep into his subconscious that only he and George would ever know. For once, he wanted to rebel. This time, he was the one to write his own destiny; not some ancient entity spawned out of both fairy tales and nightmares.

But Death was relentless. It was weeks after his last encounter with Death when he started to hear voices awake. _Master of Death. Fate's Right Hand. Bringer of End. _They unnerved him to no end, but if there was something he was sure about himself, it was that he was tenacious. He'd ignore the calling until the end of the world if he'd have to.

Harry returned his attention to his surrounding the moment his clock let out an unearthly sound. The clock was a gift from Arthur just after the war ended. Harry didn't give a lot of thought into modifying it—the only people on the clock were himself, George and Ginny. He tweaked it so it would scream in alarm the moment one of the hands touched DANGER. Which now, Harry realized with pulling dread, was happening.

In a span of seconds, Harry summoned his Firebolt, destroyed the huge window at his flat and zoomed upwards the sky, giving no thought to the shattered glass all over him, as his mind reeled with George's face on the clock's hand.

* * *

Harry wouldn't call himself paranoid—but on this very day he was thankful that he'd been paranoid enough to put a tracker on George. He sped up his flying, his vision fixated on the ball of light in front of him, showing its way to George's location.

_Not this time, _Harry swore vehemently.

He hadn't sped this fast since ever. The worst thing about the tracking spell was that it couldn't be used with apparation; he'd have to go through the journey—no matter how urgent it was. It left the odds to his flying ability.

When he finally crashed through an abandoned shack on the west outskirts of Knockturn Alley, the light disappeared, and he fell and glided through its basement, until he halted, stopped by an unmoving body. A tall, orange-haired body with blue eyes opened wide and unseeing.

"George..?"

Harry brought his ears to George's heart. There was no sound. He put his hand together and started to pump the center of George's chest.

"Come on," Harry grunted, trying to restart George's heart when his own was failing. "Not this time. _Please."_

He could barely breathe. His pushes were weak, but he knew they should suffice. If it couldn't work, then it was because it was too late.

_No. No. No. NO—_

He was slashed from behind. From his right shoulder blade to the left part of his hips. The cut was instant, deep, and blood would keep gushing from his body until he passed out in minutes. The pain was exploding in his back, and it took all he could to turn around and placed his gaze on the attacker. Black cloak with the emblem of seven snakes. He'd seen it countless in headlines, but he'd turned a blind eye. He and his loved ones were safe hiding from the public—until this day. Slowly, Harry rose.

"You did this?" Harry asked, almost inaudible.

The attacker, the one standing before his followers, showed Harry a set of pearly teeth. "Impressed yet, Boy-Who-Lived?"

When Harry didn't answer, the attacker continued. "You're very hard to reach. No one knows where you're hiding—even after a little… persuasion. We thought the murders we committed would be enough to lure you out, but apparently you're not as heroic as we originally thought. It took a _personal _approach to—"

Rage burned through his veins as Harry fired his curse. The impact alone made him stagger as his head began to spin, but he could see clearly enough. The curse shot with the speed of his Firebolt and crashed through the attacker's face like a bullet through a watermelon. Blood splattered against Harry's face. Screams exploded and echoed inside the wall of stone. And then silence. The followers of the attacker stared at him, mouth-gaping, wands shaking in the air. Blood dripped from his chin.

Harry tore his gaze away from the headless form of the first attacker and met each of the others' gazes.

Everything became a blur. His anger became fuel. He shot every offensive spells that came to mind—left to right, up and down. Red and blue and green and gold exploded in the enclosed space, but all he could see was _blood_, and all he could think was how to spill _more_. Screams and blood and flesh swirled across the basement, almost in a rhythm. Amidst the sea of emotions, of rage and power, he realized he missed this. Adrenaline surging through his body, his magic realized in the realist, liveliest way possible.

Seconds passed, and everything turned deafeningly quiet, aside from his own heartbeat.

As though he snapped from an illusion, Harry's attention abruptly shifted to George. He jumped past the mangled corpses and approached the body of his best friend. Regret washed over anger and horror in an instant as he realized George hadn't been protected from his curses.

His previous energy depleted in an instant. His fingers trembled as he waved his wand over him, muttering incantations to heal a dead body. He couldn't _breathe _properly—not when those eyes were looking at him, accusing him.

"Not again," Harry pleaded. To anyone. Anyone that could hear him. "_Please."_

Selfishly, he could list hundreds of wizards of witches he'd rather see dead than George. It was fate crueler than his own. The ginger had barely learned to live after the death of his twin—_Harry _had barely learned to live with the death of his best friends. The last few years were hell—but it was at the very least bearable with George's presence.

He could no longer hold the tears. He screamed, tasting blood inside his mouth as he did. He couldn't accept _this_—he wouldn't—

"_You could save him."_

His eyes snapped to the tall dark figure suddenly shadowing them. Again, Harry found two icy blue eyes staring into his soul from under the hood.

"_You can save him," _It repeated. _"The moment you embrace your fate, to do so will be in your power. There will be repercussions, without doubt; with each innocent soul you return to their body, a portion of your own will be taken."_

His eyes hardened, tears still streaming down his face. "And then I will be eternally damaged, won't I? Damaged souls go to limbo. Become your possessions."

"_Souls heal_," Death answered shortly. Its voice lacked trickery. "_If your soul remains damaged when Time ran out, then yes, yours will forever be mine. The master becomes the servant."_

"To heal a soul is to regret," Harry recited quietly. "Then what if I do not regret returning a soul to the body?"

"_Regret relieves oneself of sin, and cleansing sin heals souls. It is not regret itself that heals souls. Healing souls can be done by many things, Master, but it is not something of a task. After all, Time truly heals everything."_

Silence. The voice of Death rang in his mind like a gong. He understood every syllable, but the words were foreign to him. They buzzed like countless bees inside his head, gripping his heart as he slowly realized what this meant.

Finally, he found his voice. "Give me the ratio of soul regeneration proportioned to Time."

Death smiled. _"One revival of an _innocent _equals a lifetime of the involved soul. The moment the soul you revive returns to me, then your soul will start to heal. In time equal to their Life time, the healing shall complete."_

_"_And if Time ends before my soul heals completely?"

The voice that followed was almost bloodthirsty. _"Then you become mine."_

"A debt, then. And a gamble."

"_For lack of better speaking, yes._"

Harry's gaze dropped to George's unseeing eyes. _Life can never be fair, can it?_

With determination he'd never had for the last few years, Harry looked into Death's eyes and asked, "How?"

But it wasn't a question needed to be answered. Harry could feel Death's magic pulling his; he could feel them merging, day and night, oil and water, fighting each other until it fused into one, solid, unbreakable power. He felt it both entering his body through every surface of his skin and emerging from the center of his chest and moving through his veins. It was as though he was cleansed from inside-out, his old magic replaced by something entirely foreign but also completely _his_.

Abruptly, Harry and Death weren't the only ones in the room. There were souls—transparent, but unlike ghosts, they were not floating nor were they bluish hue. The souls of the followers of the uprising, Harry realized. They squeaked in fear as Death advanced on them. Harry expected another bloodbath—but all Death did was too touch them, and then they burned, dissolving into nothingness.

Harry was morbidly fascinated by the scene, until he realized George's soul was kneeling next to his corporeal body. George's face was full of confusion as he stared down his lying form. Slowly, Harry reached George's transparent shoulder and was surprised when it didn't go through. George, apparently, was too, as his gaze snapped to Harry's instead, and his eyes went as wide as saucers.

Magic danced in Harry's finger tips, as he pushed George back to his body.

George's blue eyes widened. He took a sharp, deep breath through his mouth. He was understandably confused—Harry was ready to answer anything he asked, but the ginger beat him to it by hugging Harry fiercely.

"How the bloody hell, Harry?" George's voice shook.

"_Very _long story."

It was cruel, how life worked. He never wanted fame or glory or wealth and they kept on coming to him. He wanted nothing more than to escape loneliness and it was the one thing he was always denied.

* * *

Leaving Britain after what happened was an inescapable decision. Harry disliked it, but George didn't. The one-eared ginger despised it. He claimed that just because Harry was immortal and apparently able to manipulate souls, that there was no way any party would come after him or those he loved—which made George backtrack immediately as he himself heard how naïve it sounded. Aside from that, Harry didn't really feel like staying anymore. It took Harry years to realize, but Britain was slowly eating him alive.

One night, he slipped into McGonagall's office to have a little talk with his deceased mentor. Dumbledore's portrait was huge, as it should be, so Harry couldn't bring him out for privacy. Instead, he cast a small-range _muffliato._

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked in surprise.

Harry gave his old mentor a long look. There wasn't a single difference between the Dumbledore in the portrait and the Dumbledore he used to know. And Harry was similar to him; trapped in a box, immune to the current of time.

For a second, Harry wondered if he should tell him. Despite Dumbledore's good goals, the means the old man used to reach said goals made Harry resent him. But Dumbledore was beyond the grave now, and all that was left was an animated source of his intelligence. There was nothing the portrait could gain from Harry—there wasn't anything left.

Maybe it was logic, maybe it was desperation, but Harry told him. Harry relieved everything he told George—the signs, the first meeting, the first realization, the ramifications. Like to George, Harry avoided talking about how those things made him feel. Dumbledore stayed silent throughout Harry's speech, his eyes calculating, his frown growing with every word.

"I—This isn't what I expected, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

Words and regrets meant nothing. Despite Dumbledore's intention, the result was the same. Harry wanted to snap, but he managed to reply lowly, "That's not what I'm here for. Not for explanation, not for apologies. I've heard them."

"Then what, my boy, are you here for?"

"Solutions."

"If you've decided to see me, then you've already known that there is no solution to your immortality."

"True," Harry agreed. "I know. I've talked to _it, _you know. There's no way to back out from it, but maybe I don't have to go through it alone."

Realization dawned on Dumbledore's face. "You're here to find a way to grant immortality to others?"

Harry gave the old man an incredulous look. Was that how people perceived him? Did he appear to be that selfish? How could he condemn others to this when he himself wanted out of it?

"No," Harry denied. The question offended him, but he couldn't find it in him to get angry. "I want to know if there are… immortal people that you know. That you trust. I've done my research on mentally-stable and intelligent creatures with immortality, long life-span, or immunity to aging and so far I've found none."

Dumbledore's eyes abruptly became lost, and Harry wondered if portraits had feelings.

"I must admit, I didn't think that you'd ask for this," Dumbledore muttered. "Actually, yes, my boy. I've made many connections in my long life. All sort of people, all sort of creatures. But they're all business, Harry. Very tricky business. I don't think—I don't think that they deserve you. You—Harry—after everything you've been through—you deserve better."

"Well, that's not possible, is it?" Harry snapped, politeness thwarted by desperation. "If I have the liberty to _choose_, headmaster, I would've chosen Ron and Hermione to come back."

Dumbledore remained silent. Harry's head felt like a tangled mess, and he turned on his heel to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him.

"What?" Harry turned.

"There is one person," Dumbledore allowed slowly. "A person whom I trust with my life. And if you'll have me, with yours."

A spark of hope flickered in Harry's chest, but he ignored it. "Who is it?"

"A vampire," Dumbledore said. "Ancient and brilliant like myself. But unlike me, his kindness knows no bounds. His name is Carlisle Cullen."

* * *

"_You seek a person_," Death rattled. The sound was alike to claws scratching metal. "_A man, but at the same time, not_."

Harry's gaze fell to the void under Death's cowl. He was lying on the ground, rugged grass itching his back, but unable to move. In years, he'd never felt this drained—physically and mentally. It felt as though a rock was sitting on his chest, chaining him to the earth. It had been this way for the last three days. Upon agreeing to take the title, he was transported into a realm familiar only to him. After all, this was the place he'd visited every time he had his nightmares.

Death never told him that blood would be spilled. Not that he needed warning; the moment Death raised its scythe, Harry knew it was going to be bloodbath.

What he didn't expect, however, to be so shamefully overpowered by the entity that called him _Master_.

"_Well_?"

"Yes. I'm looking for a vampire. The name's Carlisle Cullen."

Abruptly, there was change in the atmosphere. The wind shifted. The sky darkened. Harry could feel Death's distaste hanging in the air.

"_And why would you stoop so low to willingly search for such abominations?"_

In his tired state, Harry glared. It took a great deal of effort to force himself to sit. Automatically thinking of the late Remus Lupin, Harry snapped, "Not all became what they are by choice."

For four long seconds, all that transpired was the contact of their gazes. Despite being unable to see Death's eyes—if it even had one, Harry still felt the cold chill on his nape.

"_Truer words have never been spoken,"_ Death said. "_Choice, Master, is the only thing in this world that matters."_

Before he could even show his surprise, his stomach was no longer able to withstand his weight. He fell on his back with a thud. He could feel his consciousness drifting, but he forced his eyes to remain open, and his lips to move. "Why?"

"_It's the command of Life_," Death told him. "_Do you know, Master, that there are two of Fate?"_

Harry shook his head.

"_There is Fate that is predetermined. There are events bound to happen at fixed points of time. No mortal efforts would be enough to defy it. No men strong enough to prevent it. No children pure enough for their wishes to be granted and cancel it_."

Flashes of images attacked his mind before he could help it. Ron's unseeing eyes. Hermione's unmoving body. Fred's half-grin on his pasty face.

"_And there is Fate that is undecided. Events that would never transpire was it not for the bravery and kindness of mankind. For their greed and deceit. In the end, the choices of mortals were all that matters for Life, and ultimately, for Death._"

Harry processed this, and then asked, "And what of vampires?"

"_This command is especially significant for vampires. For their existence itself is abomination. Do you have any inkling to what started it?"_

Again, Harry shook his head.

"_You_," Death whispered icily, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. "_Rather, a version of you. The First Master_."

"There were others before me?" Harry asked immediately. "What—what happened to them?"

"_One_," Death allowed. "_A wizard. One who gained the title before the Hallows came to Life. To my utmost shame, he cheated Death. In the age where magic was as free as will of men, unbound by mediums wizards have now created, a man created a spell unlike anything before or after. A spell to grant mortals strength beyond this plane, and immunity against the current of time_."

Death's scythe made its way to Harry's neck. The cold steel touched his skin, but no blood was drawn.

"_The wizard met his end, of course, but not by my scythe. No—I was not the one with most loss. Time was enraged; Time banished the First into the realm beyond the workings of Time. A place you've visited, not so long ago."_

"The limbo," Harry whispered.

"_Yes_," Death's hiss was predatory, and Harry could just imagine the sadist grin hiding underneath the hood. "_But alas, the damage is done. The spell is created, and its effects are being passed throughout generations as we speak. Every time a mortal is bitten, they cheat Death._"

"This is where choices play out?"

"_Choices matter in every situation, in every moment. Death, in the truest sense, is predetermined. Every mortal has its own __Time Limit__. Those that chose to defy this rule, whether by ending his own life or another's, damage their own souls—a condition only repairable by remorse before their own Time is over. Whole souls belong to Life_," Death grinned. "_Damaged souls belong to Death_."

"That's.. That's a mess," Harry muttered. "The chain of murder don't always stop. Suppose there's a girl whose father was killed. She killed the murderer. The murderer's wife killed her. Then—"

"_Choices are based on intentions. Intentions and remorse, Master. The two factors determining whether a soul would be mine. In that case you created, then the only soul that will be mine is the soul of the murderer—the one that started the chain_."

Harry nodded slowly. "That's.. fair."

It could be his imagination, but Harry could've sworn that Death was _happy. _The scythe relented from Harry's neck and disappeared into nothingness. "Then what of vampires?"

"_Becoming vampires cheat Death. Vampires who did not seek vampirism are pardoned in the Afterlife, assuming they passed the trial."_

It was the first time Afterlife was mentioned. Despite Harry's curiosity, he didn't press the topic. Rather, he asked, "Trial?"

"_Vampirism is a trial. The ultimate test of temptation. Those who seek human blood beyond surviving purposes commit murder and therefore damage their soul. The same rule applies."_

"And Carlisle?" Harry pressed. "The vampire that never spilled a single drop of human blood?"

"_Is as pure as the purest of mortals_," Death answered. "_If his company is what you wish for, then so be it. But you need to find him yourself."_

* * *

Carlisle Cullen.

That name became the only thing that mattered to him these days.

_Follow the light, Harry. For the light will lead you to him._

Dumbledore's voice played over and over in the back of his mind, urging him to strive forward. Under his Invisibility Cloak, he dashed with the speed that surpassed even vampires. His goal was one—the location of a certain animal-hunting vampire, but the goal was never in sight. The shimmering blue ball of light that promised to lead Harry to him kept on zooming forward without a stop. It had been this way for days.

Rain fell, heavy and unforgiving. Harry had enchanted his clothes to remain dry, but nothing can be done about his own body. Lightning blasted behind him, and with mild horror, Harry saw the ocean beneath him shook. As though it was enraged, both sky and ocean swirled. It became harder to travel, and as Harry found a tiny lone island in the vast sea, Harry decided to stop and rest.

The storm lasted for three days. It would've been dangerous, had he not been a wizard. Few simple flicks of the wand and he was tucked safely inside a magically-expanded tent, along with bedroom, loo, tiny library, potion worktable, kitchen, and a fireplace in front of which he stayed every night.

The moment the sun emerged and the sea was calm once more, Harry took off. He put on a few precautions, mostly for the wind and Notice-Me-Not Charm. Traveling by Firebolt was exhilarating, and certainly one of his favorite experiences, but it did get tedious after a long time. After seven hours passed, Harry found himself slowing down. He hadn't noticed it before—how the ocean glittered at the touch of sunlight. How _alive _the sea was, dancing around, swinging back and forth, calm yet deadly.

Suddenly, he had the urge to touch seawater. He descended slowly. The feeling of his foot touching the warm water was ironically alike to being thrown a bucket of ice. He felt more alert—energized. There was complete freedom in the vastness of the sea. At that moment, in which the only thing that mattered was him and the sea and the sky, Harry didn't resent being alone.

And abruptly, with Fate's morbid twist, Harry realized that he wasn't.

It was in a blink of an eye. He was speeding with his Firebolt—but with the visual sensitivity of a Seeker, he noticed it. A human, with hair of gold, deep in the clear sea. It was entirely out of context that he stopped before he could think. Slowly, unable to believe what he just witnessed, Harry turned and looked down.

He didn't have the chance to scrutinize the figure further; the figure was suddenly in front of him, and Harry found himself looking into bright, clear _golden _eyes on the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

Exposed to the sun, her skin scattered the light. It was then that Harry knew what she was. Not a muggle version of mermaid, not a veela. But exactly what he had been searching for.

"Vampire," Harry whispered before he could help himself.

He couldn't even hear his whisper himself, but his utterance snapped her out of her shock. Her eyes narrowed with animosity. Harry's hands moved to his wand. She noticed.

"How are you doing that? How do you know what I am?" The girl demanded, her voice musical even when impatient. "_What are you?"_

Harry couldn't believe his luck. His journey had only numbered to a few days but the end goal couldn't be predicted. It could take weeks, months, years before he actually reached Carlisle. The tracking spell that Dumbledore used only worked for directions—it told him nothing about distance.

His mentor told him how rare it was to find a vampire like Carlisle; compassionate, and refused to hunt humans. Yet the first vampire Harry encountered was one with golden eyes.

He smiled widely. The girl instantly turned wary.

"Hello. I'm Harry."

* * *

**ALRIGHT, that was long. I hope you don't find it tedious… the next chapter will decrease significantly in length.**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Goldspot - If The Hudson Overflows (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism, as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


	2. Two Sides of Spectrum

**I am overwhelmed by your kind responses. It kinda feels like coming home... Thank you, thank you so much. I will try my hardest to write a story for you to love. Thank you.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE.**

**1\. This one is entirely from Rosalie's point of view. I tried to write Rosalie's decades of history into one chapter, so if that seems rushed, then **_**that**_** was why. Sorry for that, but I can't find a way around it. To help, think of it like Snape's pensieve chapter (titled "The Prince's Tale", god, I should have named this chapter "The Princess' Tale") in the seventh Harry Potter book.**

**2.**** If you want your review to be replied, don't post as anonymous. Or at least leave email or other contacts. I am not replying reviews in chapters, okay**

**3\. FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, I just realized that you can't review on the same chapter twice. BUT FANFICTIONNET WON'T LET ME DELETE SIGNED REVIEWS, so if you want to let me know what you think of the new story (whether you love it or just want to roast the whole thing), you can PM me or leave an anonymous one (leave your account name though so I can reply). Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you!**

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**WARNING. For those of you that aren't familiar with canon Rosalie's history, then I will warn you: there is RAPE, SEXUAL ABUSE AND VIOLENCE. It isn't explicitly written, but if this offends/triggers you, then I advise you to leave.**

**FURTHER WARNING. For those of you that miss the fact that the genre of this story is ROMANCE AND ANGST (and FAMILY, but fanfictionnet won't let me add one more) and you can't stand either of the genres (I'm looking at you, angst-haters) then I also suggest you to leave; this story is simply not for you.**

**That being said, sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing_ PhoenixFanatic999!**

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"_And every demon wants his pound of flesh_

_But I like to keep some things to myself_

_I like to keep my issues drawn_

_It's always darkest before the dawn"_

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**#2  
Two Sides of Spectrum**

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There was no such thing as a perfect life, but there was for Rosalie Hale. She was gifted not in the way that would make her freakish; her life couldn't be closer to the concept of normalcy, and it was perfect for her. Born with beauty incomparable with anyone in the city and into a family well off enough to purchase her pretty dresses and silk, the blue-eyed blonde grew up used to adoration. Relationships were never a challenge, either platonic or romantic. There was no need for effort. She could simply stand idly at the park, and bring home an eligible bachelor.

Of course, it wasn't something she let herself do. Growing up with constant praises inevitably caused her to believe the notion that she _was _better. It sparked jealousy ineluctably, to the point that a group of faux-beauties confronted her and even went as far as to slap her, but news grew fast and it only made boys more eager to prove how protective they could be.

There were pretty girls, but she was prettier. There were richer girls, but in the end, rich men wanted the prettiest most. That was the way the world worked. And she loved it, loved the way the world seemed to circle around her.

By the time she reached the age eighteen, a handsome, wealthy young man began to court her. She felt pride in the jealous stares of her peers, and the lovelorn gazes of their partners. Royce King II, true to his name, was a charming gentleman. It only took him a week to acquire her father's permission to marry her. While Rosalie's cousin, Vera, seemed to pity her, Rosalie didn't give the sentiment a single thought. It was the perfect ending of her childhood; the princess had exited the castle, rescued by the prince.

Vera's underwhelming reaction to Rosalie's joyful news created a strain between them for a while. Rosalie couldn't quite understand it, and pinned it as undeniable jealousy. Vera's look was barely average, and she was cut off from their family because she ran away with a carpenter. An idea that she simply couldn't comprehend. And then that Rosalie had found something better than Vera would never have, it was inevitable.

Months later, when Rosalie was done fitting her wedding gown, Vera gave her a call. Rosalie went out of pity since Vera sounded weak so she thought perhaps her cousin was sick—but when Rosalie opened the door of her tiny cottage, she was welcomed by the sight of a newborn baby, snuggling against Vera's chest.

Something twisted in her. For the first time in her life, Rosalie felt jealousy. It was a terrible feeling, and she would have left if not for the cute smile of little baby Henry. The house seemed warm all of the sudden; she carefully took the baby into her arms and sat by the crackling fireplace. Perhaps there was fire reflected in her own eyes because Henry watched her and then smiled, full cheeks forming one-sided tiny dimple.

"We've been thinking about this," Vera began, as her husband the carpenter sat by her. "We want you to be the godmother."

Before she could help it, she began to sob, and took Vera into a tight hug. The two of them exchanged tearful smiles, and then Rosalie forced Vera to take a much needed rest while she lulled baby Henry to sleep.

Had she known what would happen, she would have stayed. But Vera's analog reminded her that it was nearing midnight. She remembered she had cake-tasting first thing in the morning, so she kissed little Henry goodbye and left him soundly in his crib.

The moon was absent on the way home, the streetlight dim. She walked and walked, her bizarre exchange with baby Henry and her cousin fresh in her mind. It provided her a sense of comfort, but the street grew more silent and Rosalie forced her feet to walk faster. She heard low footsteps behind her. Her heart beat along with the sound. All of the sudden the footsteps accelerated; she threw all caution out of the window and began running.

She was scared. Terrified—more than anything in her life. She could barely breathe now. She wasn't physically fit, no matter how perfect her figure was. The footsteps behind her didn't stop, but she had to. Her legs had given up. All that was left was to scream—

"Rosalie!"

_Royce's voice, _she realized with dawning relief. She ran to him, for the first time in forever with the overwhelming urge to kiss the man…

But as she crashed against his form, his posture wavered. It was then when Rosalie smelled the booze. She looked up to his face and realized now that he wasn't her knight in shining armor. He was just a bystander in the story, calling her name simply because he recognized her in his lack of sobriety. She was crestfallen, but still she was thankful. His call had saved her from a fate she shuddered to imagine.

"Rose," He whispered against her ear. "Let's play."

And then he kissed her. For the very first time. _Her first time. _A sloppy hard kiss with strong reek of booze. It should have felt _amazing, _it should have felt better than anything in her life, but all she felt was a massive disappointment and a strong urge to get away from his face. And so she did—she pushed him. It was a mistake. His idiotic cheer disappeared, and his face grew red with fury.

"BITCH!"

He slapped her—harder than her jealous peers, harder than her mother. It rang through her entire being like electrocution. She barely felt the ground beneath her as she fell.

It was the worst time possible to _think _about this but at that moment, it came to her that _this _was never what she wanted. What she longed for wasn't this—it was never about rich boys and pretty dresses. She had them; she grew tired of them. What she wanted was warm house and loving husband, an adorable baby in her arms.

She resolved to call everything off by the morning. But her head still won't stop ringing, and before she had the chance to stand, she was lifted.

At first she had thought that Royce would bring her home, perhaps offer her an apology, but she saw Royce standing ahead of her with his bottle. Whoever carried her wasn't him. There were hands on places her mother told her to_ never _let anyone touch.

She was scared. She pleaded them to stop whatever it was that they were doing, but her sobbing only excited them further. She tried to scream and another slap grazed her cheeks. She cried harder not to try for help but because she couldn't stop. They tore her into two—

_It hurts—everything hurts—_

They paid no mind. It continued, for God knew how long, and all the while she had never stopped sobbing and shaking and wishing that she was never born instead.

They left her stranded naked at the street, broken like a ragdoll. All she could taste was blood and their bodily liquids burning on her skin. Some of her bones were fractured but she didn't know which. All she knew was that death was coming, and she was waiting with open arms.

An angel arrived. Beautiful blonde angel, golden eyes staring at her with horror as he crouched down on her. He leaned in, as if to give her a soft kiss, and she welcomed anything that would replace those men's lips on her skin…

But it wasn't a kiss. It was razor piercing her neck, followed by devastating fire. If her experience with those despicable men was hellish, it was nothing compared to this one. Every inch of her body was _burning_, her organs crushed, her skins skinned. Her screams tore her throat, and she tasted blood her own blood in her mouth.

She pleaded for it all to stop. Whatever this was—she wanted none of it. Let her die. Let her cease into nothingness.

Someone answered, but she couldn't make out the voice.

* * *

It felt like eternity had passed. Perhaps this _was _hell.

But then pain ceased, inch by inch. Fire moved from her fingers, leaving them be, as it aimed for her heart. Every bit of fire that had burned her now exploded in her chest. She screamed—the loudest she'd ever screamed, and her heart beat for one last time.

Her first thought was of relief—the pain was completely absent now.

Her second thought was realizing the presence of company. It was the angel that took her; the one that pierced a razor through her neck. Upon better inspection, she now realized he wasn't a complete stranger at all—he was Dr. Cullen, the handsome young doctor that had just moved in with his wife and brother. The other two were standing far behind him, their faces wary.

"Miss Rosalie Hale?" The man's voice was gentler than she expected. "My name is Carlisle Cullen—"

* * *

There was no such thing as a perfect life. She wasn't an exception. She thought she was, and she was crashed back down to earth at once.

This life that Carlisle Cullen had given her would be everything her former self wished for. The Cullens had taken her in, and their wealth was more than the King's and her family's combined. Her beauty was now truly incomparable.

But Carlisle told her how she would never age and grow old with her husband, never able to have children, never able to have what Vera had…

"You should have left me to die," She whispered. It might have been partly out of spite, but she meant it. What use was immortality, if she could never have the one thing she wanted?

"The fact that we can't procreate doesn't mean family is out of option," The mind-reader said. Edward Cullen—he was even more beautiful than Carlisle, but his expression was completely apathetic.

"_Get out of my head," _She growled, ready to lung at him—

Warm arms circled her from the back. Esme, Carlisle's wife, was his reflection in the truest sense. Motherly and kind, she instantly reminded Rosalie of Vera.

"Edward's right, Rosalie. We're family now," She said—_begged—_with such heartbreaking voice that Rosalie's anger depleted.

The room grew silent. Carlisle was the one who broke it when he faced her fully, an anguish look on his face. "I'm _truly _sorry for what happened to you. I acted on impulse. You were so young, so full of potential… I couldn't let you die. I'm sorry."

Rosalie didn't reply. Even after decades passed since she started to join their coven, she had never acknowledged his apology.

* * *

As soon as she regained her strength, she hunted them down.

Each of them. One by one, so they would know that she was coming. The first one was the one she didn't know, but got the first taste of her. He ended up being her first taste of murder too. Rosalie watched, fascinated, at the horror in his eyes as she tore his right leg and sprung it across the room. Like her, he pleaded. Like him, she replied with a grin.

"Shame," She murmured, and tore his head off.

Her throat burned, aching to devour the pouring blood. But refused to let any of these foul men's essences inside her, so she locked her jaw shut.

The second and so on were less exciting. She was consistent; each of them died the exact same way except for her ex-fiancé. He was naturally saved for last, and it had the best effect on him. The night she came, wearing the wedding gown she never got to wear, he was curling into a pitiful sobbing mess at the corner of the room.

"Royce," She whispered against his ear_. "Let's play."_

The next morning, the grave news reached the city's ears. The successor to King's company was brutally murdered in his bedroom, mutilated and crushed.

* * *

Carlisle was disapproving. Esme was disappointed. The only one who seemed to agree with what she'd done was Edward—the one that hated her.

Her vanity disgusted him. His superiority complex revolted her. They vehemently despised each other. They could barely be in the same room, but it was when she was visited by memories of that night when he was entirely unable to stand her.

Her haunting past haunted him too, and she felt savage satisfaction watching him feeling _her _pain. He knew this, and hated her even more.

"_Stop," _He hissed, one time when the memories overwhelmed her.

"Sorry," Rosalie said, meaning it. "I didn't mean it this time. The scent of roses—they triggered it."

The silence was thick, heavy. It was only the two of them, now. Carlisle and Esme were out hunting. She thought it was a pathetic plot to get the two together. Edward seemed to agree.

"I never got to say this," He started, a little awkwardly. "I'm sorry. For what happened to you."

She froze, completely off guard.

_Thank you, Edward._

* * *

Becoming a part of the Cullens was a gradual, long process. Their lifestyle differed greatly to hers even if she ignored the difference in species. They paid no mind to social affairs, as society left them to their own devices due to their predatory nature. The only actual social interaction done was among their own—and another coven in the cold mountains of Denali, she learned later—and even then, they were occupied with their own leisurely pursuit. Carlisle and his medicines Edward and his music, Esme and her cooking (despite the fact that she couldn't taste them properly) and donations to charity and orphanages.

At first, she had no idea to conform to that. Her idea of avocation was purchasing dresses and adorning her own appearance. They were the two things that now left bad taste in her mouth, and she had no interest in them ever again.

Each of them taught her in their own ways. Carlisle tried to turn her into another medicine-maniac to no avail, then directed her to mechanical engineering, which she surprisingly found fascinating. Esme helped her channel her fondness of children into donations and rare visit to orphanages. Edward introduced her to music which turned to be her escape for the centuries to come.

* * *

"Aren't you tired of being alone?"

"Yes."

"Why am I alone, Edward?"

Tired golden eyes turned to her. "I don't know."

And she kissed him. It was her first kiss since that night—the night she'd rather forget but was forced to be reminded anyway—and she felt Edward flinched beneath her as the memories began to attack both her mind and his. She stopped. Unlike those men, she'd always stop if the other party was too uncomfortable to go on.

"Do you want me? Just for tonight?"

The answer was a deep, desperate hiss. "Yes."

Once the morning arrived, they returned to hating each other. She returned to her grief, and he to his lethargy. Neither of them ever spoke of that night. It was a secret they both would take to their grave. So they acted as though it never happened, even though ever since that moment, one became the closest for the other.

* * *

"Hi! My name is Alice, now Alice Cullen, and we're going to be the _best _of friends!"

Rosalie was immediately attacked by a bone-crashing hug by a pixie. Behind the newcomer, her mate stood rigidly, watching Rosalie with calculating eyes.

* * *

Alice awakened Rosalie's asleep love for fashion and beauty. Jasper, for his gift alone, became her new favorite person. Whenever she had an episode, Jasper would channel positive emotions without preamble. It kept her sane throughout the years. It allowed her to see the warmth in their absurd little family. She didn't keep track of how she felt about each of them. But somehow, when they had to move again for what seemed to be the thousandth time, it dawned on her that she could move as many times as needed if they were together.

She hated surprises. Everything was a scarring surprise that night. She needed consistency in her life, and that was what exactly she got living with five vampires as a family. Leaving one city for another was nearly identical after being done a couple times. The city was new, but the landscape was similar, and the ignorance of humans remained. It was a little dull, she admitted, but it was pleasant. It was constant.

Everything changed the day they moved to a little rainy town called Forks. At first there was nothing to faze them. Again they were thrust into playing teenagers in high school. There was nothing less exciting, and the rest of her siblings seemed to think so.

But then arrived the Chief Police's daughter. A plain, horribly-coordinated young girl with no extraordinary feature came and did what Rosalie had never been able to do. It took her decades to be the closest to Edward. Bella Swan took his attention in one night.

As the human intruded their lives even further, resentment grew inside of her. She had expressed her concerns the first night she realized his affection for her. She spoke out of concern for the family, and Edward lashed out. He was more furious than he had ever been at her, angrier than even what could only be called the darkest of their times.

Their relationship was never the same since then. Something had broken. She didn't know what was, but she knew Bella Swan was the one who broke it.

That was why when all of them had left Forks and Alice called Rosalie and told her about the human's death, a small part of her was satisfied. The fact that the human once wanted to throw her life away to become _like them _added to the dark state of content.

The part was immediately overruled by trepidation when she realized that Edward was behind her. The two of them locked gazes, hers in alarm and his in horror.

Immediately she lunged at him, pinning him under her weight. She knew his thoughts without needing to read them.

_Don't go to Volterra._

He struggled beneath her. He was stronger between the two of them, but the shock had left him out of energy.

_Edward, please, _She pleaded. _Think of what this would do to the others. Carlisle. Esme. Jasper. Alice._

_Me._

She swallowed thickly. _Please, for once, think of me. I can't lose you._

Golden eyes before her softened amidst the grief. But it wasn't enough. She knew she wasn't enough.

In a second, he released her grip and threw her across the window from a fifty-story hotel. It was as though time stopped. Surrounded by shards of glass and metal hovering in the air around her, she caught his pained expression and knew what he wanted to say.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

Edward came home, alive, Bella Swan in his arms. The others showered him with hugs and kisses—in case of Jasper, a well-deserved _punch _—but she stayed in her spot and looked away instead. Whatever it was that she felt, she knew it was not jealousy. But it twisted inside her, flowed through her veins like poison. _Rosalie hated her. _So much, in fact, that she couldn't stand being in the same room with the human. But the fragile girl had saved Edward when she couldn't.

Rosalie offered the girl her first genuine smile. Bella looked surprised, but smiled back nonetheless.

Edward's eyes went to her and he dashed across the room. In one swift motion, he pull her into a breathtaking hug. Her tears wet his shirt but she couldn't care less; _he was alive. _He was home.

"I'm sorry," He murmured.

She didn't reply. The reunion grew larger. Alice even planned an impromptu little party, complete with a mountain of food and beverages Bella could drink. The human who had one hell of a trip and understandably lost all of her appetite for the day.

The next night, when finally all of them were now present and mentally healthy, Rosalie expressed her desire to leave. Each of them were stunned, more so Edward, despite the fact that he could read her mind.

Her head was too much of a mess. Their happiness now only reminded her of her own lacking. How even with her beauty, she never managed to find someone to love after all these decades. How she had to witness their love for each other every day for almost half a century and realized that the closest she ever got to their level of intimacy was playing with the idea of it.

It took Bella Swan breaking the pattern of consistency for her to realize how toxic her infatuation with it was. Her desperation to keep things the way they were was what ended up changing them.

None of them were happy with her decision, least of all Edward, but with Alice's announcement that Rosalie _would _be back, they all accepted it. At the end of April, she took one last look at their crestfallen faces. Each of them truly meant the world to her. If she had to choose between humanity annihilation and their lives—she would have chosen them, the world be damned.

For the first time in her existence, Rosalie Hale did something simply because she wanted it.

* * *

There was something about ocean that called to her. Perhaps it was that it dulled her hearing sensitivity, or the way it resisted against sunlight. Traveling to cities was nothing to this—it became rather dull when one had moved from for too many times. To unravel the world wasn't to discover more of human culture, but to experience what humans hadn't touched.

She was alone, in the middle of vast sea, deep enough underwater so that the sun's effect on her skin wouldn't attract any human devices. This wasn't something she ever thought she would ever do even if they could do it; being a part of the Cullen family meant conforming to society, striving to be a part of them even if the glaring evidence suggested that it was a futile dream.

They should have had a life like this. Quiet, serene, peaceful. Far from the terrible presence of humans, left to their own thoughts.

The intensity of sunlight decreased immensely all of the sudden. She opened her eyes and felt them widened, shock hitting her like a ton of bricks.

Above her, there was a person flying on what seemed to be a broomstick.

Instinctively, she pushed the water behind her and dashed upwards. The flier reacted at the same time; she watched his shadow turning back. The two of them sped to the same spot, like sharks competing for prey.

The moment her face broke through water, the flier stopped. In front of her, completely hovering in the air, a young man with emerald green eyes stared at her with undisguised wonder. The silence was unbreakable for a while—neither had an idea what to say to each other. She couldn't even begin to list the laws he had broken just by levitating himself in the air. This—he was nothing like she had ever seen.

"Vampire."

Shock waved over her like the ocean. Immediately her body tensed and prepared for combat. He noticed. His right hand approached an oddly shaped twig strapped to his left arm.

"How are you doing that? How do you know what I am?" She demanded, voice heavy of disbelief. "_What are you?"_

His grin matched the sun above him.

"Hello. I'm Harry."

The boy's green eyes sparkled as he said so. It was impossible to miss. His eyes—emerald green, a shade of green unlike anything she had ever seen in human eyes—stood out from the rest of his features, aside for the lightning-bolt scar marring his forehead. Midnight-black hair. Clean set of teeth. These were all common features found in humans, and such, were not worthy of thought. But his eyes; there was vigilance even when he acted friendly. Fear even when he was the one who hovered above her, his fingers circling around what could only be a weapon—lethal enough against vampires, considering his knowledge of her.

There was a glint in his eyes that Rosalie only found in Carlisle's and Jasper's.

Rosalie ignored the outstretched hand. "Tell me what you are."

He graciously moved his hand back to the handle of the flying broom. It was a sight more bizarre than anything with which she was familiar. As more seconds passed, Rosalie found herself becoming more and more impatient. She took hold of the collar of his shirt and pulled him in. Emerald met gold, and Rosalie hissed. "_Tell me."_

With surprise, she noticed no fear in his eyes. He remained smiling. Rosalie was used with mortals smiling at her in daze and adoration, but his smile was nothing alike to that. It was as though he was fascinated; as though they were playing a game. She opened her mouth to press, but he beat her to it. "How about a race?"

"A _race_?"

He nodded. "A race. To that island. If you get there first, I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Without bothering to answer, Rosalie dove. It was only after ten meters or so that the boy realized and let an indignant cry. She allowed herself a little smirk as she sped through the water like a bullet, unhindered by the current.

There was a loud _CRACK _sound behind her, but she ignored it. If he was capable of flying on a broom, he'd undoubtedly be able to create a few distractions. Rosalie improved her speed, creating bubbles around her and causing fish to move out of the way. When the land was finally in sight, she kicked the water behind her and with the full strength of a vampire, and reached the goal in less than a second.

When she emerged from the sea, saltwater dripping from her hair and soaking through her body, she expected to wait and see a pair of wide green eyes, both flabbergasted and enamored by the sight of her form.

But then she registered heartbeat, and looked at the young man in front of her in complete shock. The raven-haired boy was leaning casually against a palm tree, hands crossed, with an infuriatingly smug smirk on his pale face.

_Not. Possible._

"Ready for some stories?"

She remained impassive for a few seconds. Eventually, curiosity ruled over pride and she nodded. The smirk on his face turned into a genuine smile. It was an act done in a heartbeat, so quickly that it threw her off guard. She looked away, ignoring the sudden, foreign emotion in her chest.

They moved deeper into the land, until they found a clearing. She could tell that this land was also alien to him, but she couldn't figure out what he hoped to find. The clearing held no special attribute; the only difference would be the tall trees that now surrounded them—

Rosalie's body tensed, and she stopped moving.

Despite the lack of sound she made, he noticed. He turned, for a second briefly wondered what was going on, until understanding dawned in his face.

"Don't worry," He said softly. "I have no intention of hurting you."

His voice was so soothing, so _genuine _that she almost immediately believed him. His heartbeat didn't increase, showing that it was the truth that he spoke. But after seeing what he was capable of doing, masking his own heartbeat didn't seem so much as a stretch.

"I just need some privacy," He explained as she made no reply. "It'll be a problem if muggles see this. A clearing with natural boundaries like this is easier to cast a ward over—sorry, I'm rambling. It's easier for you to just see it than for me to explain."

He took the wooden stick out again, only this time not as a weapon. He aimed it towards the sky. Nothing happened. She wondered if it was broken and that she had regained the upper hand, but then he looked at her and it hit her: he was asking for her _consent_.

In a swift, slight movement, she nodded.

As a spark shoot out of the stick and dawned all over the clearing like a dome, two things reeled in her mind. The fact that the refraction of light made the dome visible to her eyes yet physically she could feel nothing, and the fact that this stranger with a weapon that could possibly overpower her had asked for her consent to use it.

Silence remained. The only sounds heard were the steady beats of his heart, grass ruffling and zipper moving as he opened his small backpack on the ground. He barely entered his hand—he seemed to summon the object into his grasp. It was hardly surprising at this point, but then he pulled the object out and it was a folded tent fabric with size at least ten times that of his backpack.

"How?" She whispered.

With a quick flick of the stick, the tent built itself. Fabric levitated, strings pulled, wood stakes piercing the earth as if these objects had will of their own. In less than a few seconds the tiny tent was up and steady. The tent was nowhere near impressive, with what appeared to be hand-me-down fabric at least through two generations, but she found herself fighting the urge to gape. He flung his backpack over his shoulder and grinned at her. "Coming?"

_How could she not?_

There was a part of her screaming danger, but in space as tiny and enclosed as this, she'd have the advantage. She could snap his neck before his fingers even touched the stick, as long as she remained fixated on his every move. Carefully, Rosalie raised the cloth covering the entrance and set her feet inside.

She supposed she should've expected it. After seeing a tent packed into a tiny bag, it really should've been a given. Yet still, Rosalie couldn't help being amazed at the actual interior of the tent. It wasn't nearly as big as the Cullens' house, but it was at least five times larger than from what it looked like outwardly.

The interior did have something that her family house didn't: earthiness. The lack of electricity buzzing through cables was different yet pleasant. The color palette even suited the theme; brown, peach, beige, maroon and mahogany slightly altered by the light coming from the fireplace made everything seemed simplistic and warm.

Usually, such simplicity would never interest her. Yet for some reasons, the atmosphere made her think of Vera—her down-to-earth cousin, the only person in her human life that she was sure was _good_. While a part of her ached at the memory, a small smile made its way to her lips.

When she realized that she was being watched, the smile dropped. She crossed her arms. "Indulge me, then."

"What do you want to know?"

Rosalie immediately replied, "Everything."

"It's a long story."

"I've got forever."

And again, he smiled. There was something highly disconcerting with the way his usually shadowed eyes light up in an instant. The foreign sensation in her chest returned, and Rosalie fought the urge to return the gesture. She pressed her lips together, masking her expression into cold indifference. It was a look that could even send Edward away from her sight.

If anything, his smile grew, and Rosalie's confidence faltered.

"Okay," He allowed. "But I never got your name."

"Rosalie Hale."

"So, Rosalie, this—"

"Hale."

"Pardon?"

"Don't call me Rosalie," She told him flatly. "Hale. Call me Hale."

He eyed her not with distaste for her attitude, but with mild amusement. "Alright. Call me Harry."

"Harry's your given name."

"Yes."

"Your last?"

He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"

Rosalie looked at him. It was a simple question, but the guarded look in his eyes made her think there was something else to it. She would have answered affirmative merely out of curiosity of his reaction, but at this moment, the thirst of knowledge for his abilities overruled everything else.

"No."

"Good," Harry grinned, somewhat sadly. "I'm not too fond of my last name."

She wanted to ask why, but kept her mouth shut.

"This," Harry said, twirling the twig in his hand. "Is a wand. I'm a wizard."

Before she could ask, he waved it. A burst of magenta light erupted from the tip of the wand, followed by a golden spark, both flew across the room indefinitely. Then, one by one, little ornaments from every corner of the room were levitated, and they too moved, circling them like a carousel of lights and trinkets.

She could see what can only be described as _magic _surging through the air, like oil through water.

A second later, they were gone. The room was back to its original state, as though the items weren't touched in the first place.

"Was that real?" Rosalie asked. "Or did you just mess with my head?"

A flick of the wand, and the ornaments were once again animated.

_Excitement. Wonder. Thrill. _Emotions she never thought she'd feel again were currently streaming through her veins. A few questions were answered, then thousands more appeared. The display was hardly the full extent of his abilities. She'd seen him move. She'd seen him outrun her in a race. She'd seen him doing things that were deemed impossible as though they were daily chores.

Suddenly, she had the urge to sit. All those years on astrophysics and mechanical engineering, only to doubt the preliminaries of almost everything she had learned.

_What else can he do?_

Without thinking, Rosalie moved. It was as good as instinct—she only knew what she was doing when it was too late. In a flash, she moved to him, wrapping her fingers around his neck, resting them lightly on his nape. Satisfaction rushed over her as his green eyes widened. His hand moved to his wand—but her right hands caught his first.

She honestly didn't mean harm. Regret began to nag at her as soon as the satisfaction came. They were now no doubt antagonistic towards each other. At the very least, she had wanted to be nice enough to learn everything about him.

The sound of his heartbeat rang in the silence. Blood rushed through his veins under her finger tips. Barely above a whisper, she asked, "Are you afraid?"

Suddenly, he looked at her as if he understood. Rosalie released his hand, but he caught hers instead. He leaned in, and Rosalie's body went rigid. He stopped until their noses almost touched, and replied, "No."

And he relented away from her sight. He summoned his flying broom from the end of the room right into his hand, flung it over his shoulder and gestured to the entrance of the tent.

"Everything's easier to show than explain. Coming?"

"Why?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Why what?"

"Why tell me at all?" Rosalie asked. "You gain nothing out of this."

Above all, this was what piqued her curiosity the most. He'd clearly known about her species. There was nothing she could offer. The scale was undoubtedly imbalanced.

"Maybe I'm doing it for the pretty face. Or maybe because I like playing know-it-all from time to time. Either way," Harry half-smiled, looking at her with a trace of fondness that surprised her. "It's better than being alone."

_Loneliness_, at the very least, she could understand.

"Besides," Harry continued. "We just met. You have no motive to kill me, and now that you know I'm your only key to a whole other world you're curious about, you definitely won't try to. Even if you do try, you're not the only one capable of killing the other."

Silent threat, delivered with a smile.

Rosalie smirked. He was finally talking her language: rationality and paranoia.

"Now. Coming?"

_How could she not?_

* * *

**And that concludes Rosalie's tale. I love this character so much. I hope you can learn to love her too!**

* * *

**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Florence + The Machine - Shake It Out (Listen to it. Seriously)

* * *

**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


	3. Finite

**So, here we are! No long author note this time. Sit back and relax!**

* * *

**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing _PhoenixFanatic999!**

* * *

"_What are you holding out for?_

_What's always in the way?_

_Why so damn absent-minded?_

_Why so scared?"_

* * *

**#3  
Finite**

* * *

The only thing she knew for sure was his first name.

Scrutinizing was second nature for vampires. Attention to details couldn't be helped; little things came to their attention whether they were looking. She never needed Edward's gift to read humans. Blood pressure, heartbeat, beads of sweat, movement, gestures, twitching of eyebrows—all of them, in unity of human nature, divulge more than what their mind might speak. Emotions showed characters. Characters were formed from memories. Memories held what mind behold. Really, reading humans were easy.

Yet not him.

She could tell his emotions. She knew precisely when he was agitated, nervous, uncomfortable or happy. She knew when he faked it. She knew his emotions—but she could not draw any conclusions from them simply because they didn't make sense.

He was happy when he had no reason to be. Then the day changed, and like the cloud hovering above them, his mood suddenly darkened, and he left her with books to explore.

She really didn't mind. Books of countless magical tales and theories were her current heroin. Books that read itself, books that tried to bite you, books that jumbled their words as soon as you read them, books that literally render unable to put it down until you were done… they were all such brilliance that she silently thanked whoever had the creativity to enchant them. Yet, she couldn't shake off the look in his eyes even as she thoroughly read them. The back of her mind kept demanding _why._

The next day, he was again joyful. He started the day trying Potions. She could tell that there was bad history between him and Potions, and spent the first ten minutes wondering _why _until she finally just asked, "Why work with potions if you hate it so much?"

For the tiniest fragment of second, he flinched. He gave her a half-smile. "It's too useful to drop."

But the potions that they were currently brewing had no use to him at all. They were experimenting, following instructions from an old book with traces of vomit all over it. There were addition written in a messy handwriting which Rosalie followed. On the other hand, Harry insisted to follow the original instruction.

In the end, the potion that she brewed was more successful. And it stole her satisfaction to know that he knew. He knew that the addition was valid. Yet he still refused to use it.

"Why didn't you follow the instructions?"

"The same reason I hate potions."

She wanted to push, but the shadowed look in his eyes made her relent.

"Why brew so much potions you don't use when you hate it?"

"I think it as a way of redemption," He said. "But I don't think I will ever be forgiven."

That answer sprouted so many other questions, but she knew no matter how she asked, he wouldn't answer them. When her head became filled with queries, she closed the last vial of the potions they brew and said, "Show me your spells again."

It wasn't a polite way of asking, but Harry got up anyway. There was this easiness that he carried whenever he responded to her words—an easiness that made herself falter. It wasn't an easiness carried by a pushover; he wasn't _obeying _her. He was _allowing _her to see his abilities, no matter how harsh she might have worded it and how silent his response was.

This tiny exchange got her thinking all the way to the clearing, until Harry took his wand out of his pocket. He gave her a long, hard look. And he smiled.

"Why don't we up the session for a bit?" He suggested. "Some music to distract the both of us?"

Rosalie smirked. "I'm not easily distracted."

"Ah, well. Music calms me."

Harry summoned an old tape back from the tent and put a cassette in. The tape was labeled '_George VI', _much to Rosalie's shock. She expected a series of songs that would remind her of the old days, as George VI was reigning as she was still human. But what flowed out of the tape wasn't songs like she thought. It wasn't even alien, as she originally assumed he'd play songs from his world. The first song was _Heroes _by David Bowie, amplified by his _Sonorus._

Suddenly, there were sparks of colors all around her. The spells were now faster than they were before. Rosalie honestly had to use almost her full speed to dodge them. Each spell was done nonverbally; there was no forewarning, nulling the great number of spells she had memorized in preparation. Maybe it would help in an ordinary battle. Despite not knowing anything about him, at the very least, she knew that he was no ordinary. He had to be special—even among his own kind.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could still watch him move. His right arm moved wildly while the other kept balance. His posture straight, his feet staying mobile. The light of spells reflected in his green eyes.

When the last spell almost hit her, Rosalie stopped moving, and so did he. She asked, "How much are you holding back?"

He shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Your best," She demanded, preparing a stance.

"You won't stand a chance."

A low growl came from the back of her throat. "Try me."

The next second, she was bombarded. Balls of light came from every directions with speed that matched her own. She dodged every bit of them, but it took her best skill. She watched him amidst the lights. His speed shouldn't be possible. No magic could possibly amount to this. His blood and human organs shouldn't allow him to move this quickly. She read all about wizarding spells and potions and compared their methods to human anatomy; what he was doing shouldn't be possible.

She buried the questions down to her subconscious and dull them out, focusing her attention fully to her reflexes and physical movement. Right, left, up, down, jump, slide—they kept chanting in her head as she began to move forward, tired of being on defense. When she finally was in at least two meters away from him, hands reaching for his collars, a spell brushed against her right shoulder blade.

And abruptly her control over her own body was lost. She was suddenly rigid, lying shamefully at the ground. Harry calmly walked to her, pointing his wand between her eyes. His eyes weren't vile, but they weren't kind either. For the first time in what seemed to be forever, she felt chills on her nape.

"Finite," He said, and the spell wore off.

The first thought that came to mind wasn't that she had lost, but it was that he cast the spell verbally so she knew he wasn't trying to hurt her.

She'd rather die than admit it, but deep down, when she was alone, this moment came to her and she thought that it was a sweet gesture.

Still, she was unsatisfied with the lack of information. She surprised herself by wanting to ask personal questions—spells and abilities could be read in books, but not the ones he used, nor the reasons they were used in the first place. She never allowed herself to ask because if she did, she'd have to give answers too. It became harder when he started meditating before sleeping. He looked as if his soul had left his body. It scared her; not because she cared, but because such a thing shouldn't be possible, and yet he was doing it every night before he slept.

In the morning, he was back to his normal self. It irked her how he cooked his meals like a muggle when he could have used magic. In fact, he almost did everything the way a muggle would. Perhaps he was muggle-raised? But then where were his muggle family now? How could such a powerful wizard come from a muggle family? Despite the blood prejudice, she speculated that magical blood had its role in a person's magical core.

When he was done with his morning routine, she asked him to do a little experiment.

She was naturally curious, so it really couldn't been helped. What she asked were no more outrageous than she usually offered, but this time Harry actually looked surprised.

"You want me to try spells on you?"

"Yes."

"You do realize that this experiment won't be reliable? The spells I cast are faster and have longer effects than usual."

He wasn't bragging, she knew. It was true.

"I'll be more well-prepared, then."

Then he charged. It was an incredibly foolish move on her part—trusting a person she barely knew to do this. She didn't know what made her trust him enough, but she did. There were doubts in her mind, but then they were cleared the moment he started to cast the spells verbally, enabling her forewarnings.

_Stupefy. Petrificus Totalus. Levicorpus. Accio. Depulso. Immobulus. Muffliato._

Most of them were unpleasant, but not unbearable. None of the spells cast were life-threatening; a fact that made her both thankful and dying out of curiosity. This thought was immediately forgotten the moment Harry hit her with a levitating spell. One second she was standing squarely on the ground, the next she was hovering up in the air, above the tall trees. She could see the ocean all around her. She opened her arms, enjoying the way the wind felt against her face. Light began to reflect against her marble skin, and for the first time in a while, she didn't resent it.

A song she didn't know was playing. It was so beautiful in her ears—the kind of beauty that made everything else beautiful too.

She didn't know how long she spent up there. It felt as though she was in a trance. It must be quite long, though, because Harry had returned inside and prepared lunch. She still couldn't figure out how he could leave the levitation spell _on _like that and wandered around freely, not needing to contain the spell. Such control was unparalleled, according to the books she read.

When she was back to the ground, the scent of blood snapped her out of her earlier wonder.

A little too fast, she entered the tent. Harry was chopping chicken legs, but it wasn't the source of this _sweet, sweet _blood that was enticing her senses. The blood was in a cup, served at the bar attached to the kitchen. Without asking, she downed the blood in a flash. It was more delicious than anything she ever tasted.

"What blood is this?"

"Dragon blood," Harry answered. "Hard to obtain, so savor it."

Of course. The higher they were in the food chain, the tastier their blood usually was.

"How much left do you have?"

"That was the last, sorry. I'll order more this evening."

Rosalie stared at the empty cup with longing.

He shook his head, smiling widely. Rosalie stared at him as she licked the blood clean. "You're more cheerful today."

"When am I not cheerful?" He replied, still grinning.

He did smile a lot. Only that there were days when the smiles were real, and others when they were pitiful imitation of the original.

"Yesterday."

He hummed. "And I suppose you're Miss Sunshine, Hale?"

This was the first time he ever used her name in a sentence. Strangely, he said it in such a way that it felt as though he was addressing her by her first name. She wanted to protest, but couldn't figure out how it was wrong.

"Something's on your mind," Harry noted.

"Something's on yours."

"Knuts for your thoughts?"

Rosalie snorted. "_Knuts? _Really?"

"Galleons, then?" He smirked. "I got plenty."

And there popped another question. What was he doing here, out in the woods, living off a tiny cramped tent if he had as much money as he was insinuating?

"Not even if you have enough to cover the entire land."

He put the chicken legs into deep oil and closed the frying pan. Then he turned, and crossed his arms. "Then what can I exchange for your thoughts?"

"Yours," She admitted.

This was when it clicked. Both of them—they were playing the same game, by the same rules, by the same assumption: that the other wasn't playing. He wanted to know what was in her head as much as she wanted his.

He smiled genuinely, and this time Rosalie couldn't stop herself from doing the same.

"Questions for questions then?"

"With established clear boundary," Rosalie answered.

"Certainly."

"No questions about family."

"And childhood."

"Lovers."

"Secrets."

"Sins."

"Sins," Harry repeated. There was something off with the way he said it, but she had too many questions to start with that one.

"And we have the right to pass the questions."

Harry half-smiled. "Deal. The answer can't be vague. It can leave details, but it can't be ambiguous."

"Deal. I'll go first," Rosalie said, pleased that Harry didn't object. "Why do you cook the muggle way?"

"Because it was soothing, I was raised that way, and I love the smell of food in the morning," He answered easily. "Why do you insist on not staying the night here?"

"Because I don't think I trust you enough to live under your roof."

His face fell a bit at this answer that Rosalie wanted to backtrack. She swallowed the irrational feeling and continued, "Why do you hate potions?"

"My Potions teacher was the worst at teaching. Why do you never return your calls?"

Rosalie paused for a beat. She didn't think he'd realized it. Her phone had been constantly on mute, and she only checked messages for urgent matters. Coven members nagging her to return couldn't be counted as one.

"Pass."

"Alright," Harry shrugged, thinking of another question. "Why were you deep in the ocean?"

"Ocean calms me. Under the sea is the only way to be truly alone from humans," She replied. "How can you move so fast and remain human?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. He seemed to be expecting this question.

"Pass."

"Fine. What did you use to outrun me? It wasn't with the Firebolt, was it?"

"Apparition. I'll show you later," Harry said. "Which of the following you like best: spells, potions or charms?"

"Potions, mainly because I can brew them. What kills a wizard?"

This time, his smile was again real. "Anything that kills a human. What kills a vampire?"

"Fire. What is your last name?"

Harry stopped garnishing his chicken and turned to look at her. "Pass. Why do you want to know?"

Rosalie shrugged. "Curiosity. How could you move so fast?"

"It isn't your turn yet."

"It is when you've asked another question."

"The question I asked was a response to yours."

"Still a question," She said, and Harry shook his head in exasperation. "How could you move so fast?"

"Pass."

"Shouldn't there be limit to how many passes are allowed?"

"Yes, there should, but there aren't. Do you have coven members or have you always been alone?"

"It isn't your turn yet."

Harry smiled. "You've asked another question."

Five long seconds passed. The only thing that transpired was the contact of their gazes; one fiery and one oddly calm, and the sound of fire crackling behind them. She hadn't realized that as the conversation grew more heated, the closer their faces became.

"I'm a part of a coven, but I've chosen to be alone for a while," She conceded, barely a whisper. "What were you thinking when you levitated me?"

There was tranquility in his emerald eyes as his smiled softened. "I was thinking you were beautiful."

In this moment, when those foreign feeling came rushing back, she knew exactly what it was, but still refused to admit it.

* * *

Ten days had passed since they first met. They had gone on with their lives as though it was the most normal thing in the world—her returning from hunting in the sea, dripping in sea water and him waiting in the kitchen. If she was lucky, there'd be cup of dragon blood waiting. If she wasn't, she'd simply stride off to his bathroom and help herself inside.

Phone calls kept coming, and she kept deflecting them. It was later that she learned she wasn't the only one avoiding. At the back of his cupboard, near the spot on which his Firebolt was placed, stood a stack of unopened letters. She'd asked who they were from, and Harry simply shrugged it off.

It was not that their question-answer session was terrible. It was good, at least for her—it quenched the thirst for knowledge that was slowly becoming unhealthy. It just was a little too overwhelming. She had been alone for such a long time that such an exposure of herself was terrifying. It irked her—how much a simple exchange of questions disturbed her—until she realized that he was affected just the same. From that moment on, for both of their comfort, questions were asked the moment they came to mind. Only most of them remained unanswered.

"Tell me about Hogwarts," She said one night, when she watched sparks dancing in his fireplace and was reminded that he once told her the fireplace was there because it reminded him of his common room.

He raised his eyebrows. "You know about Hogwarts."

"I know what Hogwarts contains," Rosalie shook her head. "I don't know what it felt like."

She briefly wondered if this was crossing to a dangerous territory.

The smile on Harry's face was full of nostalgia. "Hogwarts' brilliant."

He told her about the houses—how the separation created distance and tension between each of them, and yet solidified those in the same house. He described the comfort and warmth that radiated from Gryffindor's Common Room, told her how the light illuminated the place as students played wizarding chess or read books or simply joking around. He told her about the way the Great Hall looked the first time he entered—the way the floating candles lit the sky that was under the roof. He went to great details about the moving stairs and his frustration with it; about the speaking and moving portraits and how they had no sense of privacy. About the mornings near the Great Lake, where he swore sometimes he could hear the mermaids sing.

Rosalie was trying very hard not to feel envious.

Yet he knew, because after he finished the story, he asked, "Would you like to visit it?"

She couldn't believe her ears. "You would do that?"

"Sure," Harry shrugged, like he wasn't doing her the biggest favor anyone had ever done her for decades. "But we can't be seen."

"Why?"

"You know why soon enough."

So they started packing. Truthfully packing only took minutes for both of them, but Harry claimed that he needed the rest that night. She was anxious, but she waited. She spent the night re-reading Hogwarts: the History, memorizing every detail in her mind, ready to compare. When the dawn arrived, she peeked into his room and found him sleeping soundly.

This was the first time she had seen his room. She had plenty of chances, but as impolite as she might come across, she wouldn't barge into another's private quarter. But that morning was an exception—she was too excited that she forgot her initial boundaries, and looked inside. It was nothing special apart from the rest of the tent, though this room was more alike to what she imagined to be Gryffindor Dorm Room than the rest. There were also little ornaments—jewelry, to be exact, but not shiny or glamorous like she would have expected—they were jaded and ancient and clearly belonged to someone else in the first place. Beside his bed, there were moving photographs. A freckled gangly boy with flaming hair. A girl with frizzy brown hair. A tall boy with one of his ear gone. A girl with the same flaming hair with a pretty smile.

Her gaze fell to the dim light at the end of the room, its appearance blocked by tall stacks of old books. The mystery lured her in, so she took one step inside, careful not to be heard. Harry's heartbeat remained stable. She took another step. And another, and another, until the warning in her mind began to subside to her curiosity too. When the object was finally in front of her, she immediately registered the dark ink dancing inside of the stone basin. A Pensieve.

Before she knew it, her face had touched the liquid surface.

"_Watch out!"_

_Laughter erupted in the Gryffindor Common Room. The place was wrecked; splinter of woods near the entrance, holes in the wall, burnt marks on the floor. Thunders exploded outside, yet they seemed far away, almost unreal to the four people warming themselves to a fireplace. She recognized each of them—the girl with frizzy brown hair stealing glances at the freckled gangly boy, and the girl who looked like his sister resting her flaming head against a younger, spectacled Harry's shoulder._

_A Patronus with the shape of a stag nuzzled against the redheaded girl's face, and she giggled, causing the rest of them to do the same._

_Each of them was far from unharmed. The brown-haired girl had horribly swollen ankles. The gangly ginger had his right arm in bandages. The girl that was leaning against Harry had strangle marks around her neck. Harry himself was worse; bandage around his messy hair, around his torso, around each of his fingers. Yet he was the one with the most joy in the room, affecting the rest of them which seemed to be grim not moments ago._

_When the Patronus finally disappeared, the dark mood returned. The gangly boy was the one who broke the silence. "So tomorrow we'll separate."_

"_Take care," Harry said. His voice was rough, but she could see the trace of tears in his eyes. "Whatever you have to do—just stay alive."_

_The brown-haired girl looked at Harry softly. "Even at the price of someone else's life?"_

"_We've made our peace with it," The redheaded girl shrugged. "Right, Harry?"_

"_Yeah. We've agreed that those who are after our lives don't deserve to be treated with morals," Harry replied, turning his gaze squarely at the squirming brunette. "Haven't we?"_

_The conflict in her eyes was visible to the whole room. Finally, she conceded. "Yes. Yes, we have."_

_The gangly boy circled his arms around her, and she blushed. Harry half-smiled. "Don't think about any of that now. Just think to survive and reach the meeting point at midnight."_

_The atmosphere turned more relaxed at his words. It was the last sentence, because after that, no words seemed to need to be spoken. The brown-haired girl was now resting her head on the lap of the gangly boy, the two of them staring at each other like they had never seen the other before. It was so intimate that she felt obliged to look away._

_It was no such case for Harry and the girl. She smiled widely, looking as though she had been waiting for the moment to happen. She then turned her gaze to Harry, their faces merely inches apart, and took off his glasses slowly. In one swift, sure movement, she closed the distance between their lips._

_Something burned inside of Rosalie. It was as though she was witnessing death: being so morbidly repulsed by the sight and yet unable to look away. She was frozen in place, her eyes locked at his lips and the way it moved against the girl's. Briefly, amidst the odd emotion, she wondered how his lips would taste._

_After seven long seconds, they broke apart. Green eyes met brown, and each participant smiled._

"_See you at midnight."_

Abruptly, the room disappeared. She was back to reality—to the warmth that enveloped Harry's room. It took her one second to realize that the memory wasn't finished; rather, she was forced out of the Pensieve. She looked at the tight grip on her arm, and then up to a pair of cold, raging green eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?"

His demand wasn't voiced loudly, yet it struck her all the same. She blinked profusely, instinctively attempting to release herself, but his grip locked her. At the back of her head, there was surprise at this inhuman display of strength, but it was gravely overcome by panic and guilt that attacked her without warning.

When she said nothing, he leaned in until all she could see was his eyes.

"Never do that again."

All she could do was nod. He stared into her for seven seconds and he watched countless emotions battling inside him. Rage. Grief. Guilt. Disappointment. Pity_—pity?_

"Get out, please."

When she reached the entrance, she turned to take one last look at him—to see what set of emotions now affected him, wondering why on earth he'd feel _pity _not seconds ago. But Harry wasn't looking at her anymore. He was taking his nightshirt off, revealing an unfamiliar symbol etched on his chiseled back. A circle inside of a triangle, equally divided by a vertical line. Before she could relate the symbols to anything she'd learned, the door was shut in her face.

She ignored the tightness in her chest and forced herself to aim for the exit. Little insignificant objects felt like they were screaming at her, begging her not to go. Perhaps that was what she needed. For him to open the door and catch her. To beg her not to go. To finally make sense and fit the pattern of human nature as she understood it.

But there were no indications that it would happen. Humiliation and regret were what finally forced her out of the tent. She welcomed the dark sky and forbade herself from looking back. This had been a mistake from the beginning. Curiosity had bested her, but she wouldn't allow it to continue—not with what was at stake. She clenched the unpleasantness in her chest and kept walking.

Something exploded behind her. Immediately she turned, but there was no sign of fire. Instinctively she turned back, and in front of her, dressed in a muggle clothing, stood Harry.

"Where are you going?" He asked, tilting his head, as though he was genuinely clueless.

"No idea," She answered truthfully. The Cullens weren't an option—not now. The only place she wanted to go was back inside, but her visitation right had expired.

"Alright, let me rephrase that," Harry said, cautiously moving towards her. "Why are you leaving?"

Rosalie was prepared to snap at the demand to spit her fault out loud, but then she saw the look at his face. "You want me to get out."

"Yeah, out of my room," Harry answered simply.

Disbelief. Then slowly, hope rose amidst the confusion, but Rosalie forced it to remain hidden on her face. "Don't you want me to leave?"

Somehow, her conclusion rendered him speechless. He seemed just as disbelieving as she was moments ago, torn apart by exasperation and empathy. She thought he'd smile and shake it off. Yet instead, he took a step towards her. He muttered, "No, I don't. I don't want you to leave."

For as long as she had lived, she'd never seen a more genuine declaration. Despite her knowledge that it was human nature to break promises, a tiny smile made its way to her lips.

Harry held out a hand. Rosalie stared at it.

"We'll go there by apparition," Harry explained. "You've been curious about it, haven't you?"

She tore her gaze away from his hand and into his eyes. "_There?"_

"Hogwarts."

"We're still going?"

Harry simply grinned, holding out his hand. "Trust me?"

She'd trusted him before—when she asked him to test his spells on her. But she couldn't bring herself to say it, because saying it aloud made the premise even more absurd than it already was. So she stayed silent, not even giving a nod, and took his hands into hers.

The pressure was excruciating. Every corner of her body was squashed, distorted, and each action was deliberately maddening. There was no need for air, yet it felt as though her lungs were failing. Everything was too much—her senses were becoming overwhelmed. She forced all that was left of her energy to tighten her grip on his hand. The remaining sense that could function adequately was her sight, and all he could see was an unclear, paint-like image of wide green eyes.

Then in a flash, it was over. There was a loud _CRACK _sounding in the distance, but she was too distracted to place where it originated. She was sprawled, across dark grass beneath her, everything both buzzing and numb.

"Hale," Harry's tiny voice found its way through the ringing. It felt like she was deep underwater, and he was screaming at her from the surface. "ROSALIE!"

Something was forced down her throat. It was cold, but not unpleasant. She could feel the liquid flowing through her veins, rejuvenating her senses. When she could finally register what was in front of her, it was Harry's green eyes, wide and filled with panic.

"Rosalie," He demanded harshly. "Can you hear me?"

She blinked profusely. The ringing had stopped. She felt out of place, as though her body wasn't her own, but at least she could sense now. She managed a nod. "I'm fine."

His eyes narrowed with disbelief. "You're not fine."

It was now that she realized she was in his arms, and their faces were merely inches apart. Rosalie shifted her weight to her feet and pulled herself up and spun to face him. "I'm fine."

Harry stood along with her. To her surprise, there was guilt in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and uttered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm fine."

"I'm sorry."

"_I'm fine_," She insisted. "What are you even apologizing for? And what's with your hand?"

"Hand?"

Harry's eyes finally registered his right hand, hung with odd angle. At the same moment, realization dawned to her. _Crack._

She touched his fingers with her own, holding him around her palm. At the very least, her temperature should help. He winced. "I'm sorry."

"Hardly your fault," Harry said, pulling his wand out with his left hand, and cast a quick bone-mending spell. The bones moved under the hand of his skin, returning to their structure. Rosalie couldn't keep her eyes away.

"You're ambidextrous?"

Harry shook his head, and Rosalie restrained herself from gaping. Such a casual use of magic with non-dominant hand wasn't as common as he made it to be. She squeezed his hand lightly, testing it. He squeezed right back. Her gaze turned to his, and he was smiling in gratitude. Abruptly, the images of their landing returned to her. The panic in his usually calm eyes. The tremor in his voice as he called her name. The fact that he had tended to her first and ignored his broken hand.

When Harry held out his hand again, she knew it was not for apparition, but she took it anyway.

* * *

**FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, I just realized that you can't review on the same chapter twice. BUT FANFICTIONNET WON'T LET ME DELETE SIGNED REVIEWS, so if you want to let me know what you think of the new story (whether you love it or just want to roast the whole thing), you can PM me or leave an anonymous one (leave your account name though so I can reply). Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you!**

* * *

**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Bloc Party - This Modern Love (Listen to it. Seriously)

* * *

**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


	4. Finding the Lost

**Here we go; another chapter. Sit back and relax!**

* * *

"_Today I felt a switch in my veins_

_Used to be a shadow_

_Now the shadow screams my name_

_And in the daylight I could swear_

_We're the same"_

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Finding the Lost**

* * *

The moment they set foot at Hogwarts ground, Harry was hit with intense nostalgia. The night he'd met Dumbledore was dark and cold and reminded him only of the dark days—this time, he'd gained another chance to see Hogwarts again in all its beauty. The architecture, the magic, the people; each of them was alive in their own ways, blending together into atmosphere only found in this place he'd once called home.

A group of students passed by his transparent form, laughing and chattering as though this place was never close to ceasing to exist. As though this place was never burned with Fiendfyre, never turned into living hell to even those who loved it the most.

He was pulled back to his surrounding by a nudge from the blonde beside him. To the rest of them, she was as transparent as he was. To him, she was as clear as day. After all, how could a cloak hide another away from its own Master?

With the help of disillusionment charm, he was invisible to her. And yet she realized his momentary flashback from the slightest rise of heartbeats.

"It's nothing," He assured her. When she responded by giving him a disbelieving look, he simply dragged her inside the castle, hoping to silence her questions with the wonders of Hogwarts.

When the two of them finally entered the castle, he was now prepared for the resurfacing memories. What he didn't expect was the blonde's reaction. Her mouth was slightly parted, her eyes wide and filled with awe. For the first time in the brief time he'd known her, her face was not masked in fallacies of emotions. It was like watching his eleven years old self in her expression. Harry couldn't help but smiling fondly.

"How could you ever leave this place?" She asked breathlessly, as they entered the Great Hall, under the blue sky and the hovering candles, amidst teenagers wearing robes of four different colors.

"Well, I graduated."

His meek reply was returned with a roll of golden eyes. Harry grinned as he pulled her to sit at the far end of Gryffindor's table, the nearest spot to the entrance. Thankfully, it was near the end of lunch time and the students were busying themselves by cramping the homework they procrastinated-or, for some Hermione-type students, by heading to the next class early.

"What are you doing?"

"Just wait," Harry told her, ignoring her annoyance.

After five long seconds of her impatient stare, finally, a set of pot and cups materialized. The lid was closed so Harry couldn't see what it was, but Rosalie immediately perked up. "Is that-"

"Blood, yes," Harry said airily. "The table recognizes the sitter's preferences. Or, in this case, needs. And don't worry-I activated a disillusionment charm just now."

Needless to say, Rosalie dawned the liquid in a flash.

"What is this?" She asked, licking blood off her lips.

"No idea," Harry admitted. "What does it taste like?"

"Good," She offered casually as though she was commenting on the weather, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her satisfaction. "Not as thick as mountain lion, but tastier. The scent has a hint of elk but it's absent in the taste. There's something amiss that I can't place… I can't precisely describe it."

Before he could respond, she asked, "How does this work? I know Hogwarts has a kitchen and that it's run by house-elves, but how can it detect a person's preference and advocate for it in such limited time?"

Harry thought about it for a while. "Are you familiar with Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?"

"I've read it mentioned."

"Basically everything can be conjured out of nothing save for the Principal Exceptions, one of which is food," Harry elaborated. "Food can be multiplied, enlarged, summoned—only if you know exactly where it is—but it can't be created out of nothing."

"So the cooking and shopping are all done by the house-elves?"

"Yes," Harry nodded. "_But _here's the thing: consumable liquid is not an exception."

Her eyes widened. "You're saying—"

"Blood is basically infinite."

Her eyes darted to where his gaze was directed—the tea pot placed innocently on the table, heavy and refilled. With wonderment she couldn't hide anymore, she carefully poured the new batch of blood and brought it to her lips.

"This is," Rosalie commented between the sips. "The closest to heaven I've ever gone."

Harry snorted. He didn't miss the fact that she had the knack for dramatics, but he did miss that she'd ever show it voluntarily.

"But," She started. "_Consumable _is subjective. What is consumable to vampires isn't to wizardkind."

"Magic isn't limited to wizardkind. Its use is limited to wizarding folks and creatures, but magic itself is in the air we breathe. It's an undivided part of the world. Some even say it's sentient, though to this day it's still a matter of debate. But regardless of the presence or absence of magic's consciousness, the _intent _of the spell is the decisive factor of its success rate. I haven't looked much into it, but I suspect conjuring blood other than for consuming purposes—for rituals and healing, for example—won't be an exception."

She paused, absorbing the information with the mental of a life-long witch. He was briefly visited by the imagination of Ron rolling his eyes in impatience, and pursed a smile.

"Can we bring this tea pot back?"

"None of the property of Hogwarts can be brought outside without the permission of the Headmistress," Harry said. "Unfortunately, that includes this little tea pot."

Rosalie's face stayed indifferent, but Harry couldn't help but ask. "Do you want me to learn the enchantment?"

At once, her golden eyes light up. "You would do that?"

Without thinking, he answered. "Of course."

And there it was again. She was looking at him as though he had won her the world—while in reality, he had simply promised to help her feed herself better. It was a tiny, insignificant favor that in no way deserved to receive this response.

"Thank you," Rosalie offered quietly. At the moment, he couldn't feel anything but pity for her.

"Anytime."

He waited for her to finish drinking the blood. After ten tea pot refills, the tea pot eventually disappeared. They were the only one in the Great Hall now, except for two Ravenclaws in chess match near the front of the room.

"So what do you want to see first?"

She shrugged, somehow elegantly. "You're the guide."

As such, he took her to the kitchen. Rosalie looked as him incredulously when he told her to tickle the pear ("I swear to god, if this is a trick—") but eventually conceded. The entrance to the kitchen then appeared, revealing tiny house-elves marching around the enclosed room in panic. One of them—Winky, he remembered—yelped at the sight of him and immediately bowed. "Harry Potter, sir!"

This exclamation caused the other tiny heads to turn, and the rest of them mimicked Winky in greetings. "Harry Potter, sir!"

Rosalie turned to him, amused. "Are you running some kind of cult over here?"

"I definitely hope not," Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Hi, everyone."

A number of them burst into tears. Next to him, Rosalie took a step back in alarm.

"What is that Winky can gets you, sir?" Winky approached him, beaming through the tears. "And for this pretty lady, sir?"

Harry grinned. "This is Rosalie Hale. And it's a secret that I'm here, so don't tell anyone, okay?"

There were a quick outbursts of "We will never, sir!" and a chaos of tear-streaked house-elves demanding Harry and Rosalie to be as comfortable as possible. In a flash, the two of them were seated at wooden chairs that were conjured by the house elves, right in front of a table full of delicacies that made his mouth water. Immediately, Harry started digging in.

When he was about to eat the second portion, one of the house-elves asked, "Do you not like the food, miss?"

The question was directed at Rosalie, who froze.

"I… don't eat."

The house-elf's eyes grew round. "You don't like the food, miss?"

"No," She backtracked hastily. "I'm sure it's delicious," Rosalie said, eyeing Harry with mildly masked distaste, to which Harry simply shrugged. "But I don't eat food."

"Then what do you eat, miss?"

Rosalie seemed at loss for words. Harry took the conversation. "She drinks blood."

A chorus of "Oh!" erupted. Rosalie gave Harry a betrayed look, but Harry simply urged her back to her conversation with the tiny house-elf.

"So the blood is for you, miss!" Winky exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Yes," She replied, somewhat shyly. "It was delicious. Thank you."

Regret immediately dawned on Rosalie's face the moment the words left her lips, as most of the house-elves began wailing.

After a few plates were eaten and few extra tea cups of blood were devoured, they bid the house-elves goodbye and left the room. The moment the door closed behind them, Rosalie's face released all pretense, although there was a trace of smile in her face. Their steps echoed in the empty hallway as Harry waited for her to say a word. When she remained silent, Harry finally gave in and asked, "Are you bothered?"

"No," She replied in a heartbeat. "Normally, I would be. They're unbelievably loud, constantly shrieking, and too unpredictable to interact with. It's everything I hate put into one tiny being."

Harry tilted his head, slightly turning to her as they walked. "But?"

"_But _they're honest," Rosalie muttered. "If there is one thing I know for sure I like, it's honesty."

They didn't exchange words after that, not until they reached the dungeon. Harry had always despised the place, not only for its association with Snape and Slytherin, but for he hated the feeling of being underground. It was not something he ever shared with anyone, not even Ron or Hermione or Ginny, because they liked the safety dungeon provided. Back in the dark times, when Death Eaters burned Grimmauld Place Number 12 to ashes, the Order of Phoenix was forced to relocate to underground. While Molly Weasley did her best to make the place as lively as a dungeon could be, all he could feel was suffocation.

Even so, he could place the worries into the back of his mind as he looked at how much fun Rosalie was having. They had sneaked into Slughorn's office and locked his chamber for the time being. As soon as the precautions were done, Rosalie began checking potion labels and tried to drink a few. The result was fascinating; potions that altered the drinker physically didn't work, but those that caused physical effects did. Poisons did nothing, perhaps because vampire's venom was simply stronger. Truth serum didn't work, and neither did silencing potion.

Yet the place that she really wanted to go to the most was the library. It was the chance to discover the wholeness of the wizarding history—and with it, every prominent wizard ever lived. He felt dread with each step taken towards the library to accompany her.

He didn't want her to know. Not now, not ever.

Numerous ideas ran through his head, ranging from the most complicated lie regarding the library (possibly along the line of how the library only responded to magical folks) to the most desperate which was begging her to understand and restrain. He was tempted to try, but then he reassessed the excitement in her features. In a flash of a rare smile of hers, his ideas went down the drain.

When they reached the entrance, Harry stopped. In sync, Rosalie turned.

"What?"

"I'm not going in."

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "Why?"

"I'm just not," Harry said briskly. "I'll be around. Take your time."

Rosalie looked unsure for a second, but then nodded and entered the room, leaving Harry in the hallway.

* * *

Even years after he graduated, there was no other place at which he'd been that offered tranquility as soothing as the Astronomy Tower. This used to be the spot reserved for him-when every judging glare thrown his way from ignorant bystanders became too much or every responsibility placed on his shoulders turned stone-weight, he'd run away from reality and to this place. This spot was then known as "Potter's", clearing off sneaking lovers and secret meetings. At first, Ron and Hermione would show up and try to cheer him up, but then when even Ginny's attempt was in vain, they all eventually stopped trying.

After all, it was the one thing he needed. Peace.

Footsteps echoed in the room full of marbles. Rosalie's walk was slow yet steady and purposefully loud, notifying him of her presence. He could feel himself growing nervous as she approached, but he swallowed the irrational feeling and stared straight to the gray sky instead. When she was finally beside him, their arms touched.

"You always want to fly, don't you?"

She was staring at him, eyes full of quiet empathy. He couldn't resist to look back-he could never resist looking back. Usually, her beauty played major role that caused this but at the moment, what shook him was her earlier words.

Seeing his loss at speech, she continued. "You were always trapped. The prophecy, the role of Boy-Who-Lived, the expectations. They chained you down. The sky gave you momentary freedom."

Something twisted in his chest as he took the way she seemed like she _understood_, when not even his late best friends ever guessed. At the moment, he didn't think he'd ever wanted anyone more.

"Why did you leave?" She queried, when he remained unspoken.

"I don't want to see you changing your opinions of me."

Rosalie half-smiled. "Is it so bad? Me changing my opinions of you?"

"It wouldn't be your opinion anymore," Harry attempted to smile, but probably it only came as bitter because Rosalie sighed. "It would be theirs."

"Stories are all fabrication, even the truest ones," Rosalie offered. Harry turned to her, surprised. "Even the most honest stories don't tell everything. When you don't know everything, it's very easy to form baseless thoughts. I've learned to differentiate the lies and half-truths-and to form my own opinion."

Harry hummed. "You don't deny it changes, though. Your opinion of me."

"Again, is it so bad?"

Harry peered at her closely. "Is it?"

The look in her eyes turned soft-the softest it had ever been. "No, definitely not."

Somehow, for some reasons unknown even to himself, Harry leaned in. All he could think about was the soft smile in her lips, and he was curious to taste them on his.

But then she turned away. He stopped.

When the silence stretched in, Harry sincerely whispered, "Thank you."

Rosalie's smile was small, but genuine. Harry grinned. Gratitude had been offered, but there was no way he'd apologize because he wasn't sorry in the slightest.

"I'm going to ask questions, though."

"Certainly," Harry nodded. "Doesn't mean I'll answer every bit."

Silence dawned. It was comfortable, Harry supposed. Perhaps it was the shifting wind. Or the gray sky might play a part—or perhaps it was the way it was between the two of them now, somehow. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when he started trusting her—and when she started showing the signs of trusting him. It had never occurred to him to ever find her deep under the ocean. He didn't think of the possibility of meeting anyone else aside of Carlisle Cullen, and yet the man in question was now nearly completely out of his concern.

"It did answer plenty of my questions," Rosalie said. "The library. There were two books dedicated to your life story, each contradicting the other."

"Really? Which side are you on?"

"I'm leaning to the contra-Potter. But I suppose the pro has quite a few good arguments."

Harry snorted. "What are the titles?"

"_The Life of Boy-Who-Lived _and _Harry Potter: The Savior's Conspiracy_. You can immediately tell which was more fun to read. The writer that liked you clearly couldn't think of a more attention-worthy title."

Harry agreed whole-heartedly. "So which questions were answered?"

"Mostly trivial things," Rosalie admitted. "Physical attributes. Your scars, for example. The lightning bolt and the sentence on your wrist."

The thought of Umbridge made him recoil. She noticed, and nodded her agreement. "You should have killed the vile wench."

This made Harry laugh out loud. "I almost did. In the end, someone else got her."

And abruptly, as soon as the words left his lips, the moment of Umbridge's death came rushing into his mind. Her death was one of the most significant to him—not because he cared for her; not even he even _wished _for her to die. It was because her death was the turning point of his personality—of his morale, of the kindness he inherited from his parents and Dumbledore inflicted upon him.

He remembered seeing blood marring her neck as her grey eyes lost their light. He remembered feeling not pity, not horror, but savage satisfaction.

There was a sound of steel breaking, and Harry realized he was the one who broke the railing.

He closed his eyes, hoping to stabilize his heartbeats, banishing the images off his mind. He couldn't—he couldn't—he couldn't. Umbridge's lifeless eyes, Lucius Malfoy's decapitated head, Fred's unmoving smile, Ron's blood-soaked torso, Hermione's corpse tossed like a ragdoll…

And icy grip enveloped his left hand—the one that destroyed the steel and was marked by Umbridge long ago.

He forced his breathing rate to return to normal. His focus shifted to the way ice felt against his hand. When he opened his eyes, he could feel his hands relaxing under her touch. He gave it a light squeeze. "Thank you."

Rosalie turned to him. Of course, he couldn't resist returning her stare. She said nothing, but she did squeeze back. When no other words were exchanged, Harry asked. "It doesn't bother you?"

"Bothers me?"

"The killings," Harry repeated flatly. "They don't bother you?"

The look in her eyes hardened. "I'm not exactly innocent, Potter."

He never thought of her as innocent. The difference between the sinful and the pure was as clear as night and day in his eyes. She was far from pure—but she was also far from the dark that he was engulfed in.

"Sins," Rosalie cautioned, when he opened his mouth to speak.

Harry simply gave her a long, leveled look until he retaliated. He agreed. "Sins."

* * *

"So what else did you find in the library?" Harry asked, as they made their way back to Madam Pince's lair.

Rosalie looked sour. "Nothing much. I've figured out most of what was there from your collections. What piqued my interest was the restricted section, but the moment I went there—"

"The books started screaming," Harry finished. "Yeah, they do that. Freaked the hell out of me, especially when Madam Pince came running. Finally figured out how to slip undetected in my sixth year, but by then I had access to Headmaster's library already."

Rosalie snorted. "Teacher's pet."

"I was not," Harry countered, feigning outrage. "I'll have you know that I had two Trolls and one Poor on my OWLs."

"And the rest?"

"…Outstanding, but it's really not the point."

"Teacher's pet."

Harry ignored her as he opened the door with a flick of a wand. It was near midnight. Madam Pince was unsurprisingly awake, but with a little charm, she fell soundly asleep. At once, Rosalie began rummaging the Restricted Section, while Harry simply took a chair and sat. The first book Rosalie opened, and a satisfied smile returned to her face.

"Ancient runes?" Harry asked, disbelief heavy in his voice.

"Your collection disturbingly lacks the art of magic-carving," Rosalie responded snidely, reminding Harry of a six-year Malfoy.

"Only 30% of students per year take ancient room. 60% of those never made it to NEWTS," Harry shrugged. "I'm nowhere near genius, and the subject just bores the hell out of me."

The number seemed to surprise her. In one quick motion, her face turned puzzled, inquisitive, and then solemn.

"What?" He pressed, now easily detecting her restrained questions.

"They said Granger was passionate in her learning of the Ancient Runes."

His body went still. It only lasted a fraction of second, but it happened, and it was all the hint she needed to know how much their death had affected him. In a single second, she caught him off guard, and he was suddenly stripped. It was one thing to know when he was grieving; it was another to know _why_.

"Well yeah," He eventually managed to say. "She was the brightest witch of her age."

Rosalie turned away, and he knew that she could tell the sentence couldn't be more truthful when it came from his mouth.

"I'm sorry," She offered, a little awkwardly. "She sounded like an interesting person to talk to."

And he knew, that when it came from her mouth, it couldn't be more honest.

Harry smiled. "She definitely was."

The subject was dropped, but it lingered in his mind, even as Rosalie rambled on about the possibilities of implications that emerged from combinations of known rune sequence. Honestly, after seven sentences, she had lost him. But it was at that minute that he realized what it really was that enticed her: the fact that while unprecedented, ancient runes needed zero amount of magic to decipher.

At the very least, he could understand. Wanting so desperately to fit into something that any little chance was fair game. Then again, he also knew that the sentiment only played minor role in her fascination with Ancient Runes; he could tell that she was truly interested in the arts.

It had been a long day, he realized. He hadn't been this busy in years—not even with George prancing around, forcing Harry to attend every little pointless party of his.

As the name _George _slipped into his mind, Harry sighed. He had the chance to visit, of course, but the most likely scenario would be George trying fiercely to make him stay. The first time he left Britain, there was always a tiny chance, buried as it might be in his consciousness, that he would find his way back home.

It had just dawned to him that he now couldn't. Not when he finally found someone who _understood._

He didn't count how many minutes or hours had passed. He didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep, not until a loud bang awoke him with a jolt. Immediately he stood, moving his still sluggish feet until he found the source of the noise at the back of the room: an open cabinet, a handsome young man with bronze hair, and Rosalie crouching over him, staring at the stranger with wide eyes. It was at that moment that Harry realized the stranger's eyes were the same shade of golden—only his were lifeless.

At first, he couldn't figure out the scene before him. His brain played with the idea that she was being chased and that someone from her past had tracked her down to this place, but then the stranger moved toward her and he saw the way her body completely froze, he _knew._

In a flash, his hands were on the boggart. He couldn't think of a reason why he was this enraged, but he was, and he felt magic pulsating in his fingertips as he was trying to _choke _an amortal being to death. The boggart had left the shape of the earlier young man and was now constantly shifting into numerous forms under his grasp. He felt no fear, simply because he knew that it wasn't possible for his fear to be represented by this pathetic excuse of a parasite.

When the constant shifting stopped, the boggart retained its original shape—an uneven blob of darkness—before it exploded into nothingness in his hands.

There was no sound other than his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. When they finally ceased, Harry stood and walked to the blonde vampire that for the first time since their encounter, was looking at him with undisguised fear.

His heart sank. He forced himself to look away.

After that, they quietly agreed to leave. The entire journey home was filled with silence. Harry was still furious. At what, he couldn't be sure. He was angry for the boggart to appear, angry for himself to not stop it like a normal wizard should have done, angry for her to react this way even if it was perfectly rational. Beside him, Rosalie had returned to her default mask of indifference, but even the way she sneaked her glance at him was different now.

When rage was replaced by fatigue, Harry requested that they camped in the woods near the Hogsmeade. Rosalie agreed without a word.

It was the next morning, when Harry awoke to sunlight reaching his eyes, that she finally spoke to him. Her voice was light, but he didn't miss the careful edge. "Sleep well?"

"Surprisingly, yeah," He said, ignoring the way she glanced at him. He took a box of cereal and poured them to a bowl roughly, causing some of them to spill. He waved his wand to clean them, and then she queried again, "You obviously have no problem doing magic wandless. Why use wand at all?"

Involuntarily, his lips quirked up. "It's disrespectful."

He could've sworn that she resisted herself from rolling her eyes. Impatient, she pressed. "To whom?"

Harry gave her a lopsided smile, and then began to eat his breakfast. Rosalie watched him like a hawk, perhaps in an attempt to make him uncomfortable, but then conceded and stood with a huff.

The little interaction was mood-lifting. The boggarts fiasco was forgotten-even if it was a pretense-so Harry felt much better. He contemplated which place to visit next; Hogsmeade was closer and thus less chance of alarming someone, but Diagon Alley had so much more to offer. After weighing the pros and cons, he eventually gave in and threw the decision for her to make.

"Diagon Alley," She answered, looking at him as though he was stupid. Harry sighed.

"It's not really as amazing as they say."

"If you're worried about me seeing the statue, Potter, no worries. I've seen the article."

Harry shook his head, exasperated, until he noticed she was fighting a small smile. He grinned. She huffed at first, rolling her eyes, but her lips lost the battle as she was now fully smiling. His heart skipped a beat at the sight.

And just like that, they returned to the way they were. All was right.

* * *

**FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, I just realized that you can't review on the same chapter twice. BUT FANFICTIONNET WON'T LET ME DELETE SIGNED REVIEWS, so if you want to let me know what you think of the new story (whether you love it or just want to roast the whole thing), you can PM me or leave an anonymous one (leave your account name though so I can reply). Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Onerepublic - Ordinary Human (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**

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**Chapter 5 will be up on 9 July 8.00 PM GM+7.**


	5. Family

**First of all, I apologize for the late chapter. As compensation, the next two chapters will be uploaded tomorrow and the day after that. That being said, sit back and relax!**

* * *

"_I know that things can really get rough when you go it alone_

_Don't go thinking you gotta be tough, to play like a stone_

_Could be there's nothing else in our lives so critical_

_As this little home"_

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Family**

* * *

Future is neither carved on a stone, nor lost in the absolute unknown. It is the raging stream of a river. Those who have lived, live and will live stand at the banks with pebbles to throw. Their decisions alter it, but in no way mold it, for the river always find its way back to its course. Yet if there is a soul powerful enough to place a rock, then it will leave permanent mark on time, deciding the course of the others.

Naturally, those who were impulsive was the hardest to predict. And those who held their unchanging principles were the easiest. Yet, not for the most—for the lack of better word—_dull _people in the family.

Edward, with his ability to read minds, was surprisingly predictable. He acted on rationale and paranoia. Those whose minds he read gave him perspective but never influenced him. He was the epitome of stability—only bending his will to his family. Edward alone was easy to predict. But when it came to his human mate, he became the least predictable of them all.

On the other hand, Rosalie was the clone to Edward's single-minded heart. Cynical, paranoid and lonely, her future was child's play to tell. Edward and she had been bottomless ocean, lost and detached from the sun. But unlike Edward, she hadn't found her hope, her anchor, her light. And no matter how hard Alice looked into Rosalie's future, she couldn't find it either.

Alice had never had the heart to tell her, and Rosalie had too much cowardice and pride to ask.

Even without Jasper's power, she was able to see how much it was killing Rosalie day after day. Edward's connection to Bella and the chaos it brought left confusion and hatred swirling inside of her. Jasper had told Alice of so many negative emotions that haunted the blonde—that even the empath had trouble attempting to help her.

Thus, when Edward had almost died for his mate and Rosalie wished to run a far as her legs could bring, Alice knew it was time to let her go.

A tiny part of her unashamedly felt vindictive at Edward's misery for Rosalie's departure. She'd been suffering because of him. It was not his fault, but he knew. And he did nothing. Alice blamed him for that, and Edward accepted it with bowed head.

It had been months since Rosalie left them. Months meant nothing compared to the centuries of their lifetime, yet it still hurt to see a hole in their family. Their calls remained unanswered. She knew it, saw it happen, yet kept calling her anyway.

"I really thought she'd answer this time," Jasper admitted, as he walked into the living room and noticed the absent of response to Alice's call. The moment Jasper sat beside her, she curled herself into a tiny ball and placed her head on his lap. After staring disappointedly at the vacant notification bar, Alice turned her attention to Jasper. "Why?"

"Just this feeling," He shrugged. "Like she's coming home soon."

Alice said nothing to the baseless answer. Silence quickly followed, even by the rest of the family she knew had been listening. Until Edward opened his mouth.

"Give it up," Edward said, neither harshly nor kindly. "If she's ready, she'll reach us herself."

Indignation screamed in her mind. _It's always nice to know that your family is missing you. Something that you obviously overlook._

Edward winced. Esme sent a stern look at her way. In response, Alice smiled innocently.

It had been this way between her and Edward for some time. There was no real animosity, but at times she couldn't keep her tongue in check. It was not something she regretted; every word she had spoken was true. By the shame on his face, she knew that he knew too.

And always, her anger depleted the moment she saw the look of self-hatred in his face. Half of her wanted to bash his stoic face in frustration; the other—the one who usually won—gave Jasper a simple nudge. The corners of Edward's mouth quirked up.

"I appreciate it, Jazz, but I don't need it. I'm going to Bella's house."

"How is she?" Esme asked. Her face was always constantly painted with worry nowadays. Worry for Bella, for Rosalie, for their family. Incidentally, it put visible stress on Carlisle. Their father figure had been known to voice his justifiable opinion whenever quarrels arose among them, yet these days he mostly kept himself silent.

It was different, now. Not in the way that was noticeable at the first day, but in the way how they had managed to live contently for a while and discovered that there had been void in each of their lives. There was no sarcastic, cold response to Alice's outrageous suggestion. No constant havoc in the garage. No out of the blue enthralling music from the basement—Edward spent too much time in Bella's house lately to do so. No one that shared her passion for beauty and grace. No one that always offered counter-argument to their plans, even if without ill meaning.

_You never know what you have until you lost it._

And again, her thoughts returned to Carlisle. He was watching them all from the second floor like a sailor watching the coast—emotionless, detached. He appeared as if he was a human doctor, starved and sleepless for days. She didn't have Edward's gift, but she could imagine his mind in turmoil, wondering where on earth he did wrong.

Edward met her eyes gravely, and Alice knew she was right.

Thus one day, when Carlisle took another overnight shift at Forks Hospital, Alice decided to visit. It was the second time she ever did such thing; the first one was when Jasper lost control at local high school and fled.

"Alice," Carlisle exclaimed, surprise written across his face. "What a nice surprise."

All of the sudden Alice felt like she was about to cry. Carlisle _always _smiled. He always put on a brave face, not to seem tough, not even to seem strong, but to appear dependable to the rest of them. Leading a coven full of adult vampires wasn't as simplistic as it sounded, and yet never in the decades she'd known him, had she seen him lost composure. In the face of Edward's suicide attempt, danger of Victoria, Rosalie's departure...

He wasn't human. None of them were. But they all had their limits, including Carlisle.

"Can I hug you?" Alice said quietly.

Carlisle's eyes widened, but he immediately recovered with a wide smile. "Of course."

And she crashed into him. A long while passed, until Carlisle asked, "Can I ask why?"

"You seem like you need one."

He kissed the top of her head. They released each other. Carlisle was staring at her with numerous emotions—gratitude, fondness, hesitation. "Thank you, Alice."

"It isn't your fault."

There was a beat of silence. To humans it occurred in every conversation, but to them, it meant abundance of thoughts unable to be shared.

"It is," Carlisle answered, able to know what she meant.

"It's Edward's."

"It is," Carlisle agreed. "It's also mine."

Another silence followed. Carlisle bit his lower lip, hesitating to speak. Alice stared at him and waited patiently, until finally, he spoke what he had always wanted to say. "What if she doesn't come back?"

Even without Edward's gift, she knew this kind of thinking had been haunting Carlisle. Softly, she rebutted. "Edward came back."

"It's different. Edward left because he desired something I didn't approve. Rosalie left because she couldn't be happy with us."

"Do you remember the last thing she said to us?"

Carlisle smiled, but it held no pleasantness. "_I promise I'll return… _But promises are so easily broken."

"Not by us. Not to those we love. Eidetic memory meant eternal guilt if the promises we made remained unfulfilled."

His smile grew. This time it was of acceptance, of agreement. "I must say, you're very wise for your age, Alice."

Alice shrugged. "I'm a hundred years old hermit who can see the future."

He gave a deep, earthy chuckle that she felt she hadn't heard in a long time. She let himself bask in his newfound easiness, and allow the comfortable sound of birds chirping outside to fill the vacantness of their words instead.

"Actually, I was referring to his suicide attempt," Alice corrected. "Not his rebellious stage."

Carlisle paused. "What does that have to do with Rosalie's departure?"

"Edward left for love," Alice said lightly. The truth rang with every word, and she grew more wistful with the revelation. "So did Rosalie."

The vampire doctor raised his eyebrows. "Did you see—"

"I didn't see anything. I've never been able too. But Rosalie _did _leave to search for love. For happiness. For peace. Whatever it is, I don't think she'll return until she finds it. And even if I can't see it happen—"

She closed her eyes, imagining Rosalie on a secluded beach, smiling to the one that had saved her.

"I believe she will."

* * *

The trip to Hogwarts, while fascinating, was also an absolute wreck. The Side-Along Apparition that Harry performed to reach there was a nightmare relieved again and again—her oversensitive senses helpless against the crushing, twisting sensation. It was not something she would ever plan to do again, even if it was practical. It left her vulnerable for a good minute, whimpering under his watch.

Yet it was nothing compared to what followed. The probability of boggarts residing in an ancient cupboard in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library hadn't crossed her mind at the time. She knew beforehand that boggarts took the form of what you feared the most, but even she didn't know what her biggest fear was.

That was why when Edward's corpse lied before her, she believed it.

For a few solid seconds, she truly thought it was him, and her breath was caught at the revelation. The notion that he was _dead _wasn't alien to her, as he did try to kill himself before. And yet it struck her like thunder all the same.

Then the illusion was shattered. He came with the speed of her kind. In an instant his hands were on the boggart. There wasn't a known way to kill boggarts, only to defeat them. And yet there he was—_choking_ it to death.

She felt fear of him that night. And by the look in his eye, it was clear that he knew.

By the next morning, all was again right between them. But it didn't change the fact that the whole Hogwarts experience was exhausting to her psyche, and she needed a momentary escape.

What better way was there than the ocean?

Ocean calmed her nerves. Underwater, far from the noise of the land, sunlight barely reaching her—it felt like a haven she never discovered before. Her senses received endless information. The vibration of the butterfly wings, the fiber of a shirt, the intricate texture of sand beneath her feet, the sound of birds in the distance. Being underwater limited them, lowering the bar by a significant margin to the point where every senses felt just _right._

It was as if there was magic deep in the ocean, calling to her. Or perhaps there was, but no one had discovered it yet.

It was extremely easy to lose track of time once she was underwater. The moment she emerged the sea, the sun had turned into the moon. She hadn't seen the moon so bright and close before—its light illuminated the seawater, brought life to the beach before her.

That was when she realized that there was a figure in the far distance. It was Harry, crouching over small creaking bonfire. He was sitting on the log, posture relaxed. Near his feet stood a basket full of human food and liquor. Next to it was a bathrobe.

In a flash, she dashed to the beach, leaving traces of sea water splash that attracted his attention. Once she fully emerged from the sea, his eyes were completely on her.

And it was the first time he ever stared at her like that. A gaze she was too familiar from other humans with but always absent in his expression. The heart that had earlier pounded with every step she took just missed a beat.

To both her surprise and frustration, the gaze neither made her confident nor superior, simply flustered and unsure.

It was a fleeting moment. Soon, his gaze was returned to the fire, and Rosalie walked across the sand and took the bathrobe lying near him.

"Had fun?" He asked, tone light. She noticed the reflection of fire in his eyes, and thought that it was the best shade of green she had seen on him.

"Fun? No," She returned heedlessly. "Was it a calming time? Yes. What is this for?"

Harry shrugged. "Thought it'll be an interesting change. The moon's too beautiful to miss."

She shared the thought, so after minutes of cleansing herself from grains of salt, she returned outside. The idea of sitting so close to fire didn't entice her, but he charmed it so it changed colors every few seconds. It was enough for her to sit a few feet away from it, a little further than Harry.

As they sat in silence, with the fire creaking before them and the sound of waves crashing soothed their ears, she thought that this wasn't half bad.

"Do you realize that this isn't fair?" She complained half-heartedly. "You have your hot chocolate, marshmallows, _and _sausages. There isn't even music—do you expect me to sit here as you munch on your food?"

To this, Harry smirked. A closed cup flew from the center of the basket to her direction. She caught it easily. "Good enough."

After she dawned the liquid in a second and felt the weight of her empty cup increasing in her hands, she froze. "Did you—"

"Yes."

Rosalie gave him a small smile—the most sincere she could manage. "Thank you."

And then words seemed to flow endlessly. She was convinced it was the alcohol in his drink, but he did seem a lot more jubilant than usual. It was hard to admit that she liked seeing him like this—it almost made her forget how dark his past was.

But the moment it was brought to her attention, it stayed. The contrast emphasized it even more. As he began to talk about numerous kinds of beasts found all over the world, he showed nothing but unheeding courage. Eventually her mind began to wonder—of the ever-present confidence in his features, of the dangerous air around him even as he spoke casually. Of how the boggart couldn't take shape of his fear, of how he killed an amortal being. Eventually, she couldn't hold her tongue. "What is it that you fear?"

The question caught him off guard. He stopped twisting his marshmallow, and turned to give her an amused, yet careful look. "Are we playing another game?"

"If you want to."

"Alright," He poured himself another drink. She took a sip of hers. He smiled to the fire, but his eyes were lost. "My fear is of the absence of afterlife."

This took her attention. "So you want to believe in afterlife but you fear that it might not exist?"

"Not exactly," He shook his head, looking as if he was entertained by her suggestion. "I _strongly_ believe in afterlife. I believe that's where my… deceased loved ones are now. What I fear is… I might not be a part of it."

"But _why?" _She inquired, unable to mask her disbelief. "If there was an afterlife, why wouldn't you be a part of it if anyone else was?"

He remained silent for a while, and she wondered if she had hit where it hurt. But she couldn't let this one go, because of all the absurd things he'd done, voicing this was the one that made the least sense.

There was a smile in his face. It wasn't fake, but she never knew that seeing smiles could hurt.

"Sins."

Rosalie kept her gaze at him, and he looked back at her, appearing more unsure that she had ever seen him. "Is that a caution or an answer?"

"Both," He whispered.

Then he turned away. A part of her felt shame, screaming that she should do anything to fix it right now, but the dominant part put a leash on her mouth.

"What about your fear?" He asked. There was no malice in his voice, but she felt as though the only reason for him to ask this was to hit back. "I saw him, but I have no idea who he was."

"A friend."

"A lover?"

"_Family."_

"Is that a caution or an answer?"

She glared at him. _"Both."_

For a while, there was nothing but the contact of their eyes, green and gold. Suddenly he looked tired, as if this ritual they'd done was horrendously tedious. She agreed, but it was necessary. It kept both of them secure, in no way vulnerable towards each other beyond the physical.

"Alright," He said lightly. "Let's do something else. Let's play a drinking game."

The idea was completely ridiculous that she snorted. He noticed, and allowed a wide smile spread across his face. "What?"

"I can't get intoxicated," She told him. "Though there have been times in which I desperately want to."

"So you've never gotten drunk? _Ever?"_

"No."

Harry took another sip. "I'll find a way around that someday. I'm adding it to my bucket list."

She appreciated the sentiment, even if she was skeptical. Then she thought of hunting, of the frenzy of blood and killings, and then added, "In a way, drinking blood _is _intoxicating."

"Well, you're drinking one right now. So I guess we're both getting drunk tonight."

He said those words lightly, with a hint of teasing even, but they felt like a slap across the face. In an instant, her attention was returned to the cup full of blood.

"What?" He immediately asked, when he saw the look on her face.

Blinking profusely, she turned up and to him. "I… I shouldn't be able to do this. Drinking blood is a frenzy—it throws you into a trance of madness, it forces you to think of blood and only blood. Conversing while drinking blood, no matter what kind is it or the quantity of it, as if it's only a cup of tea… is unheard of."

Understanding lit up his face. His voice was gentle as he said, "Maybe because you didn't kill for it."

The revelation made her want to shout and cheer simultaneously, but she relented. This way of drinking was unprecedented. None of them had ever thought to drink blood from hospital bank, even Carlisle, because they had always thought they would have to _kill _for blood. _This _blood between her hands wasn't gained by killing.

She smiled a bit, taking another sip. "Maybe."

Silence fell, but it was amicable. Then, he spoke, "So we can't play drinking game?"

She couldn't help it—she laughed. Perhaps it was the revelation, or perhaps blood _did _intoxicate. Either way, it was pleasant. Harry looked at her as if he was astonished, and beamed, appearing as if he'd never had a trouble in this twisted world.

"The day you find a way to get me drunk, we'll play a drinking game," She promised.

The moment the sentence was uttered, she immediately wanted to backtrack. It hinted that she was hoping for a distant future—as if whatever this was could last long enough for him to find a way, as If it could last long enough for him to care to do it in the first place.

But in response, Harry merely smiled into his bottle, giving her a side-glance that somehow had the same effect with a close eye contact. "It's a promise."

"It's a promise."

* * *

_Harry,  
_

_How have you been? I hope you're fine wherever the bloody hell you are. Where have you been? If the answer is less than five countries then I'll seriously hex your bits. Oh, and things are okay here. It's hard to fill the gap you left in my boring-arse life, but I'll manage. Actually, I'm thinking of reopening the joke shop. Our old venue in Diagon Alley is now empty again—the owner just up and left yesterday. I'm not sure if I can do it alone, though._

_Ginny asked me to send you this. She would have sent it herself, but her owl just died._

_It is a lie. She would have sent it herself, but she's a coward, that mean witch. Don't tell her I said anything._

_PS. The owl's name is Ickle. Feed him before you send him back—otherwise he gets really beaky. _

_George_

The letter was delivered by George's new owl. The two of them hadn't had one in the past few years, seeing no need for it and avoiding the unnecessary emotional attachment. As such, it took him off guard when he saw a tiny brown owl flying into his tent. The reaction was spontaneous—the moment the foreign animal was inside, Rosalie had caught it with one hand, ready to snap its neck. Fortunately he reached her in time, and managed to save the owl from the fate of being her dinner.

Once he was done reading the letter, however, Rosalie had somehow bonded with the little messenger.

"What's his name?" She asked, rubbing the fur beneath Ickle's chin.

Harry smiled slightly at the rare display of affection she was showing. He liked how soft her expression was; he marveled at the fondness in her eyes, the lack of guard in her features. When she turned to him, he instantly masked his expression, not wanting to spoil her comfort.

"Ickle." At Rosalie's incredulous look, he simply shrugged. "Not my owl. Didn't name him."

She turned her attention to the small being. "It's strange, but it fits."

Harry hummed, diverting his scrutiny to the package that Ginny sent him. It was a tiny, light box wrapped in an olive green paper. Carefully, he uncovered the gift and found a silver bird-shaped amulet staring back at him. Beneath it, lied a piece of paper, burnt around the edges.

_To keep you company up in the air._

A small smile slowly made its way to his way. A sense of wistful wonder occurred to him as he thought where she was now—and how happy she must be with the love of her life.

Rosalie's query brought him back to reality. "Lover?"

"_Family."_

She didn't bother to hide her scowl. Harry didn't bother to hide his amusement. Then, without thinking why, he added. "Former, actually."

He watched her closely, but she showed no sign of hearing him. So Harry breathed in and stood so he could send Ickle away. Rosalie ended up being the one to feed him, but he didn't mind. He admired the way the little owl acted timidly under Rosalie's care, despite the fact that the one holding him was a natural predator—the highest one in the chains.

Then it happened again. The tender smile she was giving the owl stirred the inside of his chest, jolted a familiar, yet completely new rush inside his body. And worst of all, caused his heart to skip a beat.

She didn't turn to regard it. She kept her attention to the owl, but he could see the slight change in her attitude. The back of his mind warned him, shouted at him to back off, but he was unable to keep his eyes off her—even as she sent away the tiny brown owl to the vast blue sky.

When she turned to face him, he prepared himself to hear warning, irritation, or even disgust, but all he was given was a small, hesitant smile.

* * *

**This chapter... for some reasons, was really hard to write. I might return to rewrite it, but for now I'll advance with the story-I'm still atoning my sins of hiatus to all of you. By the way, I have something I can't wait to share with you guys-but it will have to wait until the next chapter!**

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**FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, I just realized that you can't review on the same chapter twice. BUT FANFICTIONNET WON'T LET ME DELETE SIGNED REVIEWS, so if you want to let me know what you think of the new story (whether you love it or just want to roast the whole thing), you can PM me or leave an anonymous one (leave your account name though so I can reply). Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

The Shins - Simple Song (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**

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**Chapter 6 will be up TOMORROW, 13 July 8.00 PM GM+7.**


	6. Of Blood and Roses

**Here we go; another chapter. Sit back and relax!**

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"_What you want and what you chose_

_You can't have both_

_You can't have both"_

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**Chapter 6 – Of Blood and Roses**

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Watching him drive a rented car from London—being completely muggle-like—was a bizarre experience in itself. His hands on the wheel, his hair wildly rebelling against the wind, his eyes occasionally sneaking to her direction. She had thought that driving a car would be a bore for they had known the better and more exciting transportation, but the almost-nervous way with which he carried himself was more than enough compensation.

It almost made her believe that the night in Hogwarts never happened. That he didn't destroy what nearly killed her with his bare hands. That what he did both awed and terrified her.

"What?" He asked, when their eyes met for the fifth time since they hit the road.

She didn't answer him immediately, reveling in the way sunlight illuminated his green eyes.

"You look so ordinary when you drive. It's absurd."

He looked highly amused. "Absurd? What, do I always come across like a freak show?"

"Your look is _nothing_ sort of extraordinary—"

"Of course," He nodded airily, accepting her lie, oblivious to how his eyes seemed to glow under dark bangs over pale skin.

"It's what you _do_ that completely strays from the norm. Even that of wizardkind."

Harry hummed. "What about driving makes me so ordinary?"

"At the very least, your incompetence. It makes it easier to believe you're human."

Something flashed in his eyes. In a fraction of second, his smile wavered. It didn't escape her—she wanted to ask, but she couldn't bring herself to destroy the momentary peace.

"The fact that you were once human is even harder to grasp," He returned, as he awkwardly turned the car wheel according to the drastic u-turn. "You don't seem to like humans very much."

"I never did. Not even when I was one."

There was no trace of discomfort in his face. Slowly, his earlier change of moods was shifted to the back of her mind as he smiled. Neither condescending nor polite; he actually found amusement in her words—something that she couldn't understand even until this moment.

"I'd give up all my galleons to see that. Little blonde girl, pouting at the sight of everyone."

"I _didn't _pout. My mother forbade it. She claimed it fastened the process of wrinkling."

Rosalie stopped. As soon as the words left her mouth, it occurred to her that it was the first time she told him a piece of her past without being asked.

"Thinking of her little child _wrinkling_?"

The distaste in his voice almost made her smile. "She wasn't the best mother. I'm not sure even if she was a good one."

There was a long silence until Harry finally asked, "What about your father?"

"He was always busy," She answered. "I don't think I saw him more than once a week."

The mention of her father hurt. It was irrational—it happened _decades _ago and yet it hurt. It was as though she traveled back in time and now she was a little girl again, waiting late night in the living room to see her father before she slept as her mother nagged her to sleep immediately because sleeping late wasn't good for her skin. It reminded her how _good _her father was. How he was the only one aside from her cousin that seemed to care back then—even to this day, the one that seemed to care the most.

She remembered peeking into her old room after she was turned, and finding her father on her bedsheet, tears streaming down his sunburned cheeks.

"Hey," Harry's voice brought her back. It was as gentle as his gaze. "I'm sorry I asked."

Rosalie blinked repeatedly, and turned away at once. _This _had never happened before. She remembered her parents, but the memory of them were always hazy, and it didn't feel like they were her parents at all. It was like knowing she had a distant relative from her younger years. She had the impressions of them as people, but she never remembered interacting with them.

She remembered now—her father smile, when she squealed because he got her a pretty blue dress made of silk.

She didn't' trust herself to speak, so she opted to turn on the radio instead. What played was a generic pop song from a singer that anyone in their right mind would despise. Naturally, she turned it off. Incidentally, it caused a spur.

"Some music can be nice."

Rosalie leered at him. "You didn't need music until now."

"When you've found that you can have better, it's impossible to go back without wanting it. Human nature."

"Human nature," She repeated, only the tenderness in his voice was lost in hers. Harry glanced at him, a mixture of pity and wonder in his eyes.

"Eyes on the road," She warned, but he didn't break his stare.

"You can despise humans all you want," He finally said, his voice not unkind. "But you're still more human than you think."

She could have hated that sentence—so presumptuous, so _arrogant_—especially coming from a human himself, but the look in his emerald eyes made her sit still as a stone, because what she found was not presumption, not judgement, not arrogance or even calculation, but _understanding. _And the concept that he _understood _was simply out of question, for how could a human that had known her for barely a week could understand?

Then again she knew that time meant nothing. She had spent decades waiting for her relationship with Edward to develop because it was a logical to assume so. It took Bella Swan a night to steal his attention.

And she couldn't deny it anymore, not even to herself, that now he had become a significant part of her world for reasons beyond his magic. Ask her to define those reasons, and she'd out flat refuse, because even the thoughts scared her.

For reasons unknown even to her, she replied, "What do you think makes a human human?"

"What do _you _think?"

"Beating heart. Flowing blood. Aging skin."

"Those can easily be the features of an animal."

"Fine, then. Intelligence. Greed. Envy. Sentiment. Anger. Happiness."

His expression turned soft. "Do you not feel all those things?"

Such simple words—and yet it shook something in her. Something from distant memory, of smells of blood and roses, tears and sweat. It traveled through her body to the edge of her toes.

Her lips quirked up. From the edge of her vision, she saw Harry did the same.

All of the sudden, a want resurfaced. A strong one—she realized, as she turned away and willed it down. It was identical to the first time they met. She wanted to see him bare, naked from the mask he held tight to his face. She'd known most of the events that transpired in his life. She wanted to know_ his thoughts _on them. His feelings. His fears.

But even she wasn't enough of a sadist. She sew her mouth shut, because not only that this want is irrational, who in their right mind would trust her enough?

Even so, this thoughts haunted her, even as they were now inside the tent, Harry preparing to sleep. As he emerged from the shower in nothing but a bathrobe, she saw the symbol on his chest again. He noticed where her eyes were at, and he firmly readjusted his bathrobe. She didn't pretend she wasn't watching. He smiled—the kind of smile a parent had when telling his child that he wasn't angry, and Rosalie briefly wondered if he ever had one. He was young, but he seemed like the kind of person who wouldn't let that budge him.

"Another time," He promised. His voice was low, as though he was afraid someone but her might hear. She caught _genuine _and _fear _crippling from voice and she couldn't help but think the mark on his chest was much more significant than anything she had learned about him. She wasn't sure what to make of that, or how to respond, but Harry had already vanished into his room.

Rosalie allowed herself to read the books Harry'd just bought. It was all she did when he left her to sleep. Interesting, of course, but even as she read about the conspiracies of Slytherin, the back of her mind kept urging the sun to rise so they could do something else. This kind of restlessness—it was the reverse of what she felt with the Cullens. Solitude provided in her alone time had been her most favorite thing in the world—until now.

And if this kind of attachment wasn't enough to worry, then she didn't know what was.

Footsteps jerked her out of her thoughts. From between the curtains, Harry's head appeared. He smiled, and Rosalie ignored the way it seemed to illuminate this otherwise dark place.

"Can't sleep?" Rosalie asked. "That's a first."

"Not really," Harry answered, as he took a seat next to her. "I've had difficulties sleeping in the past—well, years—but the last few weeks have been kinder. I reckon it's greed that made me assume it had vanished."

She felt pity bubbling inside her and she blinked it away, because she knew he despised pity as much as she did.

"It makes me wonder if my want for sleeping is at all justified," Rosalie said. "I didn't pry, but when you are asleep, it's never peaceful."

Harry half-smiled. "It's been awhile since I've had nightmares. Perhaps all these weeks I've just forgotten what I've just dreamed."

She warned herself to stop. But _she wanted to know._ "Do you remember now? What you dreamed earlier?"

"Death," He answered, voice far away and lost. "It's always the same. Death. And everyone else. Breaking spine, pierced skulls, decapitated heads, smiles frozen at the faces of the corpses. You'd think seeing it over and over would make you develop emotional immunity, but it really just hurt as much as the first one."

His eyes turned to her, momentarily losing their grim. She followed his line of sight—onto her own hand, clinging desperately on his. In an instant, she attempted to retreat her reach, but his fingers locked hers tightly in place.

With so many encounter with death, she wondered how on earth he managed to keep his sanity. Then again, perhaps he didn't. His emotions had been haywire since the first time they met. One time he was as warm as fireplace, with smile that could bring life even to Forks. There was another when she caught an off look in his face, as if he was there but not really there—as if only half of him was talking to her. It scared her, even more so than his stunt with the boggart, for entirely different reasons.

And she couldn't have this. No one should have this much effect on her, much less a stranger she had met in a few weeks. Even if whatever she was feeling turned out to be what she had longed for all these decades—

He was still human. She was not. He aged. She didn't. Edward and Bella might pretend there was no problem and in the end Bella would throw away the life Rosalie always wanted, but this beautiful, wonderful _wizard _would never consider to take the same course.

In the end, the same thing would transpire. Eventually all of this—whatever this was—would come to an end, and it was best to restrain herself before she went too deep.

She couldn't find out more about him on the risk that what she found might forever hooked her. So she held her tongue locked, her mouth shut. She just needed to know what one last thing.

"Memories or imagination?"

He gave her a smile as grim as the night above. "Imagination is never this vivid."

She should have stopped. She should have never asked. Because earlier she had resolved to depart in the morning, and now she had too many questions to leave peacefully.

Her fingers moved to his face. He didn't flinch, but his eyes became more guarded. Carefully, she swiped the dark locks above his eyes, revealing the scar he despised so much. She touched it with her thumb. Again, she asked.

"Does it hurt?"

Slightly, he leaned towards her hand. He was fully looking at her now. _Only her, _and despite how it was all she had ever wanted all these years, for someone to pay attention _only to her_, she found fear gripping her chest.

Fear of inconsistency, of fragility, of desire.

"No," He answered. "It hasn't hurt since I killed him."

"What about the other scars?"

"The ones shown aren't the ones that hurt, Rosalie."

* * *

"Are you ready?" Rosalie asked, posture relaxed against car seat. A teasing smirk tugged on her lips lightly, undetected if not inspected, and Harry noted how she could still maintain an air of elegance while doing so.

He returned the expression and hopped to the driver seat. "This isn't my first time, Hale."

"Your first time leaving Britain consisted of fifty miles south the coast," She pointed out. "Even muggles should be able to get farther in the first try."

"I got distracted," Harry shrugged. Out of the corner of his eyes, he marveled at the way her eyes slightly widened, before she turned unimpressed. "Either way, that's precisely why we're trying airplanes."

Rosalie hummed. "I'm still miffed at the fact all you need to forge the documents is a flick of wand."

"Is it usually a long process?"

"Irritatingly so," She said. "Bribery helps, but it still takes at least a few days. Two, minimum."

"_Bribery?"_

"You don't really expect us to abide by the rules of humans, do you?"

"No," Harry admitted. "I'm not the best follower of rules myself."

The smirk was back. "_That_ I know."

He'd never thought he'd ever be used to her presence, yet it was something he looked forward to every time he awoke. He'd grown accustomed leaving his bed and finding her pale form ghosting over the fireplace, a consistently different book in hand. She used to disregard his gaze entirely and pretend to read even though he knew when she'd finished one, but for the last few days, she'd stop and look up to acknowledge his presence. If she was feeling particularly unamused, she'd simply look and turn down. If he was lucky, a ghost of smile lingered on her lips.

There wasn't a trace of fear from that night. For that, Harry was grateful. Still, he remained cautious and forced himself to keep his emotions in check. The rage he felt that night wasn't something out of character, but the intensity of it was. It surprised him only after he had time to think about it—why was he so furious? He'd had encounters with Boggarts before, seen their effects on his closest ones, even those whose fear scared him too.

Her fear was unknown to him. A young man, perhaps a lover. She didn't seem tied with anyone else, though, and it hadn't occurred to him to ask. Unrequited, then.

Harry paused. Was this what it really was about?

He spent most of the night awake, mind reeling. At one point he unknowingly fell asleep. He didn't have nightmares that night. Quite the contrary. He was dreaming about her; of sea water, wistful smile and long golden hair brighter than the sun. He awoke with a sharp jolt, but it didn't rock his body like nightmares did. It felt as though he was pulled out of seawater, and the world of the land was lacking certain beauties.

He wasn't sure what it meant. But that morning, when he showered and recalled how this strange dream had begun to take over his nightmares, he knew exactly what he wanted.

"Are you sure about this? America?" She asked again. "It's the least magical place on earth."

"Or it's just excellent at secrecy," He retorted. "Either way, it's only fair. You've seen my place, I get to see yours."

There was a hint of smile in her face. "You make it sound as though the whole Britain is your apartment."

"It is when all it takes across Britain is a span of seconds."

And thus began their journey. Leaving Britain wasn't as exciting before—the prospect of having company really did boost his spirits, regardless of who said company was. The two of them managed to get business-class seats; to say that he was impressed by muggle had managed without magic was an understatement. While he was busy scrolling through movies showing even more mind-blowing technologies (though Rosalie revealed they were, unfortunately, unreal… for now), the blonde beside him sulked. Bewildered from the sudden shift in her mood, he offered to connect her headphone to his so they could watch together. She visibly brightened.

Offering to watch the movie together was a good decision, since half of the terms in the dialogue went over his head.

"This is hopeless," Rosalie sighed, reaching for the stop button. "I shouldn't have let you start with a sci-fi movie. American Beauty is the better choice."

Though the title piqued his interest, he stopped her hand in its tracks. "It just got interesting."

So passed another hour of Harry grasping a weak understanding of the movie's principles, but he was thoroughly entertained. And while the blonde beside him acted as though the endless questions bothered her immensely, she seemed pleased whenever she answered.

The movie was alright, he supposed. The special effect was out of this world, the character was interesting yet relatable, and the story wasn't predictable. It had been an overall great experience until one scene came up. Blood dripping from the main character as he fell to his knees, catching his best friend that took a blast for him. His eyes wide, frantic, as he started shouting. The birds around them flew, but the body in his arms gave no response.

It was when Rosalie turned the movie off, released his headphones and touched his arm that he realized he'd been shaking.

"I should have known," Rosalie murmured. "Sorry."

This was fiction. It was nothing but a tale muggles imagined. The blood was most likely paint. The corpses were actors, and the main character that shouted blood out of his throat was a damn good one. None of them was real, but the memories triggered by them were.

Needless to say, he steered clear movies for the rest of the flight. The enjoyment as a passenger decreased significantly after that. Games were dull, while music would lull him to sleep and he couldn't trust himself to do so at the moment. He moved to the educational section, scrolling through videos of cultures all around the world. It was something that would tremendously excite him, but at the time, all he felt was numbness and mild nausea.

"Sorry," He offered finally. "For ruining this."

"Don't apologize for what you have no control over."

Her words were sharp, quick, and hit home. Her eyes held sympathy but not pity, understanding not curiosity. Somehow, the abrupt sentence rendered him more relaxed.

The plane descended smoothly. They were the first one to leave; apart from being at the front seats, Rosalie's glare to nearby passengers and stewardess was enough to enable them the first chance of unloading their luggage. The door opened, and Harry was welcomed by sunlight.

"It's warmer, I'll give you that," He commented. "But it really doesn't feel different."

"You can't judge by _airports_, Harry. They're internationally interchangeable, at least for first-world countries," She replied, as her skin _glittered _under the sun. He'd never be used to the sight. Even at such a muggle place, he was immediately reminded of his first experience seeing her like that; diamond-skin sparkling under the heat, seawater dripping, golden eyes ablaze.

The notice-me-not charm only diverted the others' attention, after all, not his. He held out of a hand, and she took it without hesitation. Her grip proved to be calming in the current weather.

The tour around New York was quick and eventful. Rosalie was surprisingly an amusing tour guide; she could recite the history of every New York landmark they passed, although in a bored manner. At some points, some tourists flocked to them, mistaking her to be a guide. It didn't escape his attention that all of them was hungry-looking male—one was not, which, decidedly, looked the most eager. So he took her hand, glared at the whole lot of them, and walked away.

"Did you live here?" Harry asked, then paused. "Or do you?"

"No," She answered shortly. "But I grew up here."

_That _took his attention, but he swallowed the urge to ask more. If she wanted to tell more, she would've told without questions asked.

"This city is special, at least for me," Rosalie added. "Not only because I grew up here, but because of its exponential growth. It amazed me—that humans, with their greed and hatred and differences—could advance this far. I thought of that two decades after I left. And the same two decades after that. It never stops. They keep growing and growing and I keep watching, an outsider to all of the happenings."

Her face wasn't bitter. It wasn't cold, it wasn't even _masked_, to his surprise. It was wistful, as though she was staring at the sunset far near the horizon.

"Why don't you?" Harry asked. "Why not be part of the society? Help a hand in advancing human civilization? With your photographic memory alone, you would be a tremendous force. Add infinite stamina and heightened senses. There _have _to be some of you who want to—those that were once scientists, doctors, or even in armies."

Rosalie stared at him. "You seem to see us as this… super-powered humans. But we're not. Not even close. Even with all those things—desires for knowledge, for advancement, one thing ruled over all. _Blood. _The most basic need, isn't it? It's the one thing we need for survival. It was fine and dandy, until one realizes that drinking one isn't enough, two is alright but what harm could one more bring? So they devoured blood again and again without needing to… and the more you kill without needing to, the more your humanity is lost. The concepts of science and humanity civilization are then lost. For majority of vampires, advancement means expanding their human-hunting territory."

He felt pity, then. Not only for her—but for all of the vampires in this world. Even if the werewolves had to face prejudice in their own home, at least they could proudly say that they were human.

"But not you," Harry said, voice slightly rising in revelation. "Not you."

"I try not to be," Rosalie answered carefully. "Drinking from animals instead of humans helps tremendously."

"Do they taste different? Humans and animals?"

The smile on her face held no joy. "I've never tasted human blood."

He stopped walking.

She didn't, and Harry to walk faster to catch up with her increasing speed. "Not once?"

"Would you prefer me have tasted it?"

At once, Harry's mind went to _Death. _He fought the urge to summon the bastard on the spot only to laugh at it. The vampire he first sought hadn't spilled a single drop of human blood. The vampire he first met hadn't ever tasted one.

"Amazing," he breathed.

"I didn't say I've never killed humans."

Her voice was tense. Cold. It turned the conversation entirely. He watched defiance behind her eyes, clearly preparing to defend her actions if need be.

_Sins._

"I know," Harry said, and her eyes widened. "I'm not dense. I know the difference."

After a long while of simply walking, Harry asked, "Do you regret it?"

"No."

"Alright."

"_Alright?_"

"I've killed too," Harry answered quietly. "And there are also killings I do not regret."

She looked away. She seemed exhausted for a moment, as if telling him had cost her great energy. She bit her lip. "I—"

Her words were caught in her throat. Her eyes frantically moved to the building across the park, hundreds of meters away from their spot. She seemed as though in shock—could vampire go into shock? She slowly turned to look at him, like she wasn't sure what to do or say so she looked at him to seek answers. But he didn't understand—he placed both hands on both of her arms, to look her in the eyes and ask what the bloody hell was wrong, but in a second, she had vanished from his sight.

In a fraction of second, he had an irrational feeling that she had left him. But then he caught the sight of the building, and apparated to the road in front of it. It was a cheap motel, he realized. The light was dim, the sign was half-broken and buzzed in intervals. An eerie feeling passed his spine.

With inhuman speed he barged inside, inwardly cursing himself for not putting a tracker on her. He looked into the eyes of the man sitting alone in the lobby and angrily cast it away; the man was useless, her speed wasn't caught by his human eyes. Harry weighed his options; there were four floors, each having at least five rooms. He could _shout _her name and wipe the residents' memories later, but the chances of her actually replying was—

A scream sounded. It was hoarse, desperate, made in the face of death. It was good enough indication as any. Harry ran upwards, faster as the scream grew louder, to the far end of the fourth floor. His legs were faster than any normal humans would be capable of—but by the time he reached the door, the screaming stopped.

What stared back at him were Rosalie's eyes, wide with anger and tears, six dead men at her feet.

* * *

**EXCITING NEWS! I've been working on a way to imagine Harry/Rosalie better. I already told you that I imagine them as James Mcavoy and Blake Lively respectively, but I haven't told you this: I've created a VIDEO about them! The link is below:**

**/watch?v=utOm8BseDok **(put that **behind youtube **usual link, because **fanfictionnet **won't let me post links)

or if it's too much of a mouthful to type, then just go to (**youtube link** ) **/ user / flarsanzian** (it's the latest video I posted)

**It's a montage of them, taken by various movies (it's infuriating that James Mcavoy and Blake Lively have NEVER appeared in the same movie). I strongly suggest you watch it-it helps me write, and I believe it will help you experience the story better.**

**By the way, if you want to subscribe (for some reasons), alright! But I'm not updating regularly. I just create videos whenever the mood strikes, so don't hold on too much to that...**

**WATCH IT!**

* * *

**FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, I just realized that you can't review on the same chapter twice. BUT FANFICTIONNET WON'T LET ME DELETE SIGNED REVIEWS, so if you want to let me know what you think of the new story (whether you love it or just want to roast the whole thing), you can PM me or leave an anonymous one (leave your account name though so I can reply). Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you!**

* * *

**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Big Deals - Dream Machines (Listen to it. Seriously)

* * *

**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**

* * *

**Chapter 7 will be up TOMORROW, 15 July 8.00 PM GM+7.**


	7. Darkest Before Dawn

**Here we go; another chapter. Sit back and relax!**

* * *

"_And you have proved to be_

_Real Human Being_

_And A Real Hero"_

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Darkest before Dawn**

* * *

Frantic spirits moved around him. The spirits of the old men noticed the spirit of a young girl whose corpse was naked and bloody and broken—and their earlier malice returned. Only this time, instead out of lust, they were advancing on her out of fear.

"What did you do—you bitch—"

Harry ignored them, as the fat fist of the man's spirit went through the girl's, and both of them froze in shock.

He kept his gaze at Rosalie Hale. At her tearful eyes, at her slightly trembling figure. She was conflicted, anguished, and furious all at the same time. Harry watched her silently, waiting for her to burst, but she remained still for a good minute.

When she finally moved, she took no mind or response to his presence. The way she walked was fragile, like a sick mother recently birthing to a child, and the way she looked at the girl's corpse was akin to the way the mother would to what was hers. She took a black tablecloth, knocking a string of bottles in process. Those bottles smashed against the other bodies. It filled the room with even more sickening reek of booze, amidst the blood.

She closed the girl's body with the skimpy tablecloth. It was all there was in the room—the girl's clothes were burnt. That was when Harry realized that he was, in fact, a wizard. He conjured a white clean sheet and offered it to her.

It was the first time she took notice of him. She didn't look at his face, simply taking off the cloth from his hand and onto the girl's body. Her cold fingers trailed the girl's face. In one quick motion, as if the touch burned her, she closed the girl's eyes.

Harry couldn't see her face, but he could hear her crying.

He felt his own throat tightening up. Involuntarily his mind tried to make sense of what happened, and therefore _imagined _what had happened here. The crying—_her _crying—echoed between the concrete walls, reek of booze hanging in the air, cruel laughter ignoring her sobs. He thought of her slow, painful death and it occurred to him that she didn't look any older than seventeen…

He opened his eyes, and gestured for the girl's spirit to come to him.

The girl's eyes widened, as well as the rest of the men in the room. Clearly they had thought that their presence was lost to Rosalie and him. Eager to part from the men who broke her, the girl staggered to him and took his hand. Even if there was no collision, no touch, he felt the coldness that came with her spirit.

"_Are you certain?" _Death asked, voice heavy. "_The ginger, the little child, and now this. Those are three lifetimes of debts, Master."_

"They all deserve a second chance."

With one swift motion, he pushed her back in.

Unbeknownst to him, Death smiled underneath its hood.

* * *

_What lies beyond Death?_

Out of her family, only Carlisle seemed to be able to speak of death with contemplative ease. It was natural to be terrified of death, be it the presence or simply idea of it. At the moment, she was faced with both. In a matter of minutes, she had witnessed the young girl's death, caused the same thing to happen to men who defiled her, and watched her being returned to _life._

All Harry did was to touch her. Then—

_Thump._

It was small, so small, but it was there. The girl in front of her was lying still, and at first she hesitated—perhaps her mind had fooled her, her ears failed her, because there was no possible scenario that the sound she had heard was the girl's heartbeat. But then she watched her closely, and saw the slight rise and fall of her chest.

Her gaze turned to him who had been watching her closely, hesitation in those green orbs. She remained unmoving, open-mouthed, as her brain attempted to process the scene before her.

His movements are sharp and quick, honed by battle experiences. The blood of the girl moved along with the motion of the wand as it traveled across the skin and left the surface unscathed. She could hear the human's bones falling back to their original position, locking themselves into wholeness again. Her weak heartbeat increased significantly until it fell to an organized rhythm.

"We have to get out of here," He muttered lowly. She didn't answer, but complied.

Rosalie lifted the girl carefully and took her into his arms. Her hand touched Harry's, interlocking their fingers. Their eyes met. She felt her breath caught in her throat—there were so many questions, so many answers needed to be spoken from either of them.

In a flash, they disappeared, leaving the motel room full of brutally murdered men.

* * *

"Is she gonna be okay?" Rosalie asked, when they were in a hospital room. The hospital records were already forged, the nurses obliviated; the girl should be able to heal fully here, fees already paid.

"Yes."

"I can't leave her yet," She said quietly.

"I know," He answered, and placed his hand on her shoulder. "We'll wait until she's conscious."

So they waited. In time, they remained silent to each other. Neither of them wanted to ask first, as such they silently came to an understanding: to wait until the minor crisis lying in front of them was averted. Five hours later, the girl awoke. Rosalie was sitting beside her, holding her hand, while Harry stood next to her. She immediately realized their presences of the room. Eyes half-opened, she asked. "Who are you?"

"I'm Harry, and this is Rosalie," He said, surprising her by telling the girl. "We saved you in that motel. Those men are dead, for which I'm not sorry at all. For this, however, I sincerely apologize. _Legilimens._"

Legilimency was something she dreaded the first time she read about it. It differed from Edward's gift in the way that it could travel to past thoughts. It was still less scarier than Aro's talent, but the fact that it was learnable by most competent wizards was a worrying thought. But seeing it done, watching focus disappearing in her eyes and appearing in his, wasn't as frightful as she pictured.

By the time he was done, the girl was gasping for air. "Wha—"

"_Obliviate."_

The spell rendered both the human and Rosalie frozen, one in daze and another in shock. It just dawned on her what he was doing; he was erasing her memories, freeing her from the experience no one should ever have—

By the time it was over and the girl was put under sleeping spell, a tear grazed Rosalie's cheek.

Harry noticed it and his eyes widened in alarm. His fingers tenderly wiped it off. He seemed confused, but obliging, shutting his mouth until she could find her voice. The two of them went to his tent in silence. The moment they were inside, the earthiness of the interior reminded her of _Vera. _It broke something in her. She spun in her heels, staring right into his green eyes.

"Where were you all these years?" She demanded, knowing full well how unreasonable she was being. "Why didn't I meet your kind sooner? _Why _does not one of my family know your existence—you—you could've done _so much. _Your kind could help us, could help the pain—"

Perhaps, if she had been able to simply _forget_, she would have found happiness long ago.

"I'm sorry," He said, looking miserable. "_I'm sorry."_

She let him hug her, let herself lost in the warmth of his embrace. She didn't know what he was apologizing for. None of it was his fault. None of it was even _hers_. The fault remained at the men she murdered decades ago. She never figured out how they did it. They took the most valuable thing she had in one night, and she had vowed to take theirs—their lives. But killing them never returned what she had lost, and somehow, as she remembered the blood in her hands, taking their lives took something important from her too.

"I had the same fate," She began, unable to bear the silence anymore. "Like her. I was raped by five men, and it nearly killed me. They took my virginity, my virtue—and one of them was even my fiancé. It was the most painful thing I've ever experienced, vampire transformation included. They took something from me I can never regain, and they left me in the streets, naked and dying."

She felt his hands trembled around her.

"A vampire happened to pass by. He turned me into one of them, adopted me into his family. He is the kindest person I've ever known, but I hated him, hated him for what he did. Those men took my virtue, and nearly took my life. But _he_ took the life I wanted—a normal, quiet life with a small family, raising my own children—and by his decision to turn me, forced me to live an immortal life knowing what I truly want, I can never have. Even while I loved my family, and knew without becoming immortal I would never have come to know them, I hated this life. Despite that there was no joy in my human life, I've always desperately wanted to live that life."

Tears streamed down her face, but she made no move to wipe them, letting them wet his shirt.

"I killed the men that raped me. I crushed their bones and tore them a part. I remember feeling triumphant over my revenge, but ever since, I was never able to find peace. They took something from me that night. When I killed them, they took something from me again."

Her fingers gripped the collars of his shirt as if clinging to dear life. He'd been very kind to her—and maybe he could do one more kindness.

"Do the same for me," She pleaded. "_Make me forget."_

The look in his eyes was devastating. It burned into her. Her breath was caught in her throat for so many different reasons that she didn't know which was which anymore.

He released her. It left an emptiness between her arms, but her attention was instantly directed at the wand between her eyes. He swallowed. "Are you sure?"

"_Yes."_

Her mind reeled. Flashes of images appeared and disappeared simultaneously. She felt magic accessing her neurons like blood flowing through veins. Images, places, people—Edward, Jasper, Alice, Carlisle, Esme, Vera, Henry, Royce…

Abruptly, it ended. She remained standing in the midst of confusion. She hadn't felt any different, and the memories of that night burned brightly in her mind. In front of her, Harry looked as if he hadn't slept in days. His gaze was set on the floor. "I can't."

"Why the hell not?" She urged, anger coming to her like a wave of lava. "If you start spewing off saint nonsense like memories are a part of who I am then so help me—"

"I _can't_ do it," He repeated. "I can't find a way through your memories. They're too perfect. Humans' minds are easy to fool because the details are hazy. Yours—vampires—have too much information. It's impossible to be done."

There was no power in her to speak. The unfairness of it all slapped her harder than anything in her entire life. She had just witnessed it earlier today; the girl's memory was wiped, and the next day she would start a new life in blissful ignorance. In this life she had never been able to get what she truly wanted—she saw Vera's son and wanted the same, then the universe rid her of the ability to reproduce. She saw a girl freed by her tormenting past and wanted the same, then the universe told her that it was impossible to be done.

"_I'm sorry," _He whispered. Again, his arms found her and encircled her being. She was clinging to him like he was her lifeline. Perhaps, right now, he was. The only thing that reminded her of the present was the scent and warmth of his chest.

"Don't apologize for what you have no control over."

Amidst all the emotions, she knew that to be sure.

He kissed her temple, and she melted even further into him.

They remained attached to each other for the rest of the night, even when it was nearing dawn and she knew he was exhausted. They climbed to bed together. He lied down first. Then he looked at her, not expectant, not pitying. It was a gaze so intimate that made her feel so many emotions that she couldn't currently sort out. It was the look in Jasper's eyes when Alice kissed him, in Carlisle's when Esme smiled at him, in Edward's when he watched Bella. It was something she'd been searching for her entire life.

It both enthralled and frightened her. That night, she banished all restricting thoughts and crawled to the space beside him. She held on to him as he fell asleep, quietly wishing she could have done the same.

By the time he awoke, she had had a long time to clear her mind. The storm had passed and what was left was the calm ocean. All these times, all those episodes, she felt stranded in the sea. Lost and alone.

The moment he opened his eyes and met her gaze, she knew then. She'd finally found her anchor.

"Sleep well?" She asked.

"Best one in years. We should make a habit out of it," He smiled broadly, but then his grin faltered. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, really. Significantly better."

Then the usual morning routine played. It was what she needed—consistency, something that fit into a pattern. Everything became extra ordinary after she met him; a state of normalcy was eagerly welcomed. Adding to that point, she loved watching him cook. The current breakfast menu was apparently pancakes and champagne bottle filled with dragon's blood. Next to it, stood a glass of actual wine.

Harry raised his glass of wine and clinked it with hers.

Consuming blood for which she didn't kill caused a different effect. There was power, there was _life _in the liquid that she drank. But the knowledge that she wasn't the one that spilled its blood made her feel less predatory than usual. It made her feel almost human.

"Rosalie," He called her name, when night descended again. They were sitting comfortably, snuggled against each other in front of the fireplace. "I've been thinking."

"What?"

"You told me there was no joy in your human life," He said quietly. "Do you really think that?"

"Yes," She answered. "I can't think of any joy to reminisce. Everything good in my life came after I was turned."

"What about from the time you were growing up? Do you remember positive emotions from then?"

"My childhood was alright—"

"Don't paint me a picture of your childhood," He said patiently. "Just remember what you felt back then and tell me."

And she tried. But her attempts were futile; she remembered the events that happened, but to remember what she felt was rather difficult. There was a memory of her father returning home and she ran across the room to hug him. She was _happy _then.

But _happy _came into her mind because it was a sensible emotion to feel at the situation. She had to analyze the past to guess what kind of emotion affected her back then. She couldn't actually _remember _the feeling.

"I can't," She whispered. "I can't remember how I felt."

There was silence. And then, she asked, "You said to me that what makes human human is their emotion. If I can't remember what it felt to be human then—"

"Stop," Harry interrupted her. "There's something I have to try."

He pulled out his wand. He didn't direct it at her, but to the air. She watched him closely, inspecting the wave emotions that showed in his face. At first his expression was of immense focus, and then of serenity, until finally _happiness._

"_Expecto Patronum."_

A silver burst of light emitted from the tip of his wand. It shot like a jet through the room, circling the two of them, as it morphed into the shape of stag. The silver form stopped moving behind the couch, just inside the two's reach.

"Familiar with Patronus?"

"In theory, yes. In practice, this is obviously the first time."

He snorted, but she ignored him. The stag was incredibly beautiful; it was rare for her to admire something entirely for its beauty, but peace and _good _seemed to radiate from the ethereal form.

"Patronus is the embodiment of one's most powerful positive emotion," Harry said gently. "You have to able to recall your happiest memory and poured it into the spell."

She turned to him. "What did you think of?"

"My last night with Ron and Hermione," He smiled ruefully. "But that's not what matters now. Touch the patronus."

In response, she raised her eyebrows. _"Touch _the patronus?"

"Touch the patronus."

Hesitantly, she raised her right hand in let her fingers touched the stag.

"_You did it, honey, you did it! Lillian—you have to see this! Little Rose is _dancing!"

"_Rosalie, meet your new brother. His name is Joseph."_

_Tiny hands encircled her own._

"_He's cute, Papa."_

_Her mother smiling, more genuine than she could ever remember._

"_Oh, Rosalie. You look so beautiful, dear. You're my pride and joy."_

_A tear fell._

"_You're an adult now. Soon you'll be married… Oh, Rosalie."_

"_We've been thinking about this," Vera began, as her husband the carpenter sat by her. "We want you to be the godmother."_

_Little Henry watching her, smiling, full cheeks forming one-sided tiny dimple._

"_It's really quite fascinating. Streptomycin grissel is a type of fungus discovered by Selman Abraham Waksman, which—"_

"_Yeah, Carlisle, I couldn't care less."_

_A string of happy orphans, cheering at the sight of her and Esme._

_Watching the sun rise alone with Edward, drown in comfortable silence._

_Alice beaming at her, so genuine that it was impossible not to return the sentiment._

"_I feel what you feel, remember?" Jasper said. "And for the record, I do think the moon's beautiful too."_

_Rosalie snorted. "Stop acting like you're a mind-reader."_

"_What, you think that beauty cannot be felt?" Jasper grinned. "I don't need to hear your thoughts to know what you're thinking. Feelings speak louder than thoughts."_

Feelings speak louder than thoughts.

Her eyes blinked profusely, trying to contemplate her surroundings. Her vision was blurry—was there a negative effect on vampires? But then she felt the wetness on her cheeks and realized she was crying.

With a single spell and a single touch, she was drowned in the sea of emotions that she thought she could no longer feel. Memories she thought she no longer possessed. They burst inside of her, like a firework in her chest. When it was over, and she was still trying to process it all in the middle of confusion, her eyes caught his. At that moment, she didn't think she had ever loved anyone more, Edward included.

"I didn't know…" She started, but her speech was lost. "How..?"

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again for as many times as I need to," He told her, eyes full of quiet fondness and understanding. "You're so, _so much more human _than you think."

And she leaned in, captured his lips. The emotions from his Patronus hadn't left her, but she didn't care enough to differentiate which action caused which emotion. All she knew at that moment was that she was the happiest she had ever been in her whole existence, simply by a spell and a kiss.

"Thank you," She breathed, feeling light, levitated.

"If you're doing this out of gratitude—"

She shut him up with another kiss, and this time, he obliged entirely. Warmth traveled throughout her body, across the surfaces of her skin, through the streams of her veins. It was at that very moment when she realized Edward was never meant for her; the two of them carried the same hatred, creating a connection that destroyed them both further. What she needed was _this_, warmth to her coldness, sun to her ocean. Harry—the young man that could remain _good_ even after all he'd been through. The one that had lost so much and thus understood her, the one that was so kind and thus able to show her what it felt to be alive. What it felt to be human.

As his lips moved softly against hers, his hands encircling her form, she knew precisely.

She was human.

* * *

The sky was grey, but calm. It held nothing in its vastness, only endless freedom and possibilities. A stark contrast with Death standing tall, chaining Harry to earth.

"_I am surprised, Master, by your choice to save the girl."_

"I'm not. Human nature. Perhaps one day you'll learn."

He could've sworn he saw Death smiled.

"_Perhaps."_

Silence grew, ringing in his ears, echoing in his head.

"_And perhaps I am not clear with what would become of your Fate if your debt turns out to be unpaid," _Death spoke. There was controlled rage in its voice, creaking like the Gates of Hell. _"You will be mine for eternity. You will never be free. You will never see your loved ones anymore, not even in your sleep."_

He knew. There was a reason why he was terrified.

"_Frankly, Master, your disregard of your own soul is rather insulting."_

Harry closed his eyes. "Had you been human—"

"_Before I let you continue your speech, it is best that you know that I am incapable of imagining myself as such."_

His eyes snapped open and stared right into a pair of icy blue eyes.

"Then you will never understand," He answered sharply. "There is nothing I can say to you that will make change that. So I will say this not to gain your understanding or agreement or even acceptance: I am, first and foremost, _human. _And if humanity offends you, then you better be prepared, because I'm not the only one in this world fighting for _life. _All around the world, humans sacrifice a part of themselves to make others whole. I am not the first, and I will not be the last_."_

Void of silence stretched in between them, only shattered by the sound of his heartbeat. The gaze of Death was colder than ice, but Harry remained standing, looking back defiantly.

"_Those around the world do so for their loved ones," _Death retaliated, almost softly. _"Not strangers."_

_George's blue eyes, hollow and lifeless._

_The frail body of a child, bloody and broken beyond repair._

_A girl no older than seventeen, naked and unmoving, trace of tears in her cheeks._

"I chose what is right, not what is easy."

And he left. Rather, Death let him go. The sky above him crumbled, but Harry felt no fear as he fell along with the earth and ultimately, back to his consciousness.

Deep inside his mind, where only Death could hear and be heard, he spoke.

"One passed. Two more remain."

* * *

"What happens now?"

Her voice was as clear as bells, as soft as silk. It still astonished him just how much the way she regarded him had changed—from apparent animosity, reluctance, approving, accusing and finally to _this. _No one had ever looked at him that way. It wasn't fanaticism, for he'd had plenty of that and hated it. She didn't look at him like he had saved the world; she looked at him like he had saved hers.

It was a very abrupt change. He was mostly confused by it—but he didn't want it to stop either.

"What do you want?"

She leaned and gave him a slow kiss, which he accepted gladly.

"This isn't just a fling for me," He whispered against her lips.

Her features tensed at his words. Promptly she relented from him, although she stayed seated on the bed. Her reply was barely audible to his ears, "Don't say that."

She was staring fully at him now, golden eyes piercing his chest, as if she couldn't decide if she loved him or hated him.

He swallowed the tightness in his throat and leaned in. Almost instinctively, she moved away. For a while, all they did was to look into each other. He didn't know what she found in his eyes, but what he found in hers were fear and hesitation.

"Is it? For you?" He asked, voice slightly rising.

There was no answer. Usually he welcomed silence; he loved it in the world in which too much was being spoken. But the absence of her words was numbing, like ice slowly melting on his skin.

"I almost left, last night."

He hadn't seen her so _torn _before. Gently, he replied, "But you didn't."

"But I didn't," She agreed. "Do you know why I stayed?"

"Do you?"

"No," She admitted. "_Nothing _about this makes sense."

"Does it have to?"

Her eyes bore into him, full of uncertainty and surprise.

"Why does everything have to be logical for you?" He asked. He didn't like the desperation in his voice, but he continued. "This—whatever this is—is completely nonsensical, but don't you see? All the best thing in life is."

The corner of her lips quirked up, and he found himself doing the same.

"You always have ways with words," She conceded, the look in her face almost fond. "But it doesn't change the fact that you're still human. You age, and I remain—"

"I don't."

She stared. "What?"

"I'm immortal," Harry started, and as her eyes grew round, he placed his fingers on her lips. "I am. I'm not joking. I don't age, and I can't be killed—by conventional means. It has something to do with the triangle mark you asked, the resurrection of the girl, my speed—"

And again, she kissed him. This time it was barely three seconds, but it succeeded to distract him.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," She said. "And you don't want to. Or at least not ready."

He stared at her as if she grew another head.

"Don't you want to know?"

"Of course I do," She countered at once. "What you did completely _cross_ the boundary of what magic can do. Whatever it was, it was something out of this world. You're different from the rest of them. But_ that_ I already knew the first time I met you."

She smiled at him a little, and he found himself automatically doing the same.

"We promised, after all. _Childhood. Lovers. Secrets. Sins. _If you want to tell me, then you'll tell me. I won't ask."

And so Harry kissed her deeply, because he was frightened to his core and he couldn't tell her yet.

"Another time," He promised.

* * *

Nights and days had come and gone, and it was time for them to leave the muggle life of New York. The decision to visit the wizarding world of the United States started off as a joke, but then Harry remembered that the author of a favorite book of his, Newton Scamander, began his journey at the city. And thus the compass of their travel pointed to Woolworth Building, Manhattan, New York.

As usual, there wasn't much preparation needed. In the morning after he awoke, Harry cleansed himself in the bath while Rosalie attempted to cook his breakfast. For someone who had no idea what food was supposed to taste that, Harry supposed it was pretty good. When he voiced this, Rosalie seemed indignant. She spent the whole car ride memorizing his cook book.

She did put her book down when they needed to stop. He stopped the car rather harshly, and smiled weakly under her glare. It immediately melted once she glanced at the church before them.

"Is she inside?" Harry asked, leaning into the windshield.

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes. The others have gone home, it seems."

It started raining. Harry cast Impervius Charm at him and Rosalie, rendering them waterproof. The two of them made their way inside. The moment they were, however, Harry was amazed by how _disconnected _it felt from the outside world. The light was dim, the room huge, a grand cross at the back. Little sound made its way to the interior; they could barely hear the rain.

In front of the cross, standing on her knees, was the girl they had saved days prior.

When he used Legilimency on her, he'd gained information about her, including where she would be on Sunday morning. When he revealed this to Rosalie, she insisted on checking on the girl before they left the town.

Thus Harry and Rosalie stood near the entrance, watching the young girl perform her prayer. They didn't say anything to each other. Both were absorbed in their own minds, and for Harry it was wondering how on earth some men could be so low to hurt this innocent soul for fleeting pleasure.

As she was done and reached for the door, Harry and Rosalie watched her passed by, no recognition sparking in the girl's brown eyes.

Harry strolled to the front. Rosalie followed. Somehow, only his footsteps echoed in the enormous chamber. When he finally reached the cross, he paused, tilting his head in mild interest.

"What's on your mind?" Rosalie inquired.

Harry gave her a half-smile. "I've never been in a church before. It's a bit strange."

"My blood family was religious, so as a human, I spent every Sunday in a church."

Harry turned to her, surprised. "You believe in god?"

She shrugged, elegance in the motion. "I believe in higher power."

"Is it just you or do vampires usually believe in higher power?"

She paused. "Actually, I only know one other vampire that believes the same thing. The only one in my family. He's a doctor, so—"

"_A vampire doctor?"_

A fond smile graced her expression. "Extraordinary, isn't it? He was born into a family of devoted Christians that hunted our kind. Even after becoming what his family was out to kill, he carried that faith with him."

This revelation warmed his chest. His last words to Death resounded inside his head, ringing in conviction now that he knew it to be true.

_All around the world, humans sacrifice a part of themselves to make others whole._

It brought a broad smile to his face. His eyes met with Rosalie. When Rosalie raised her eyebrows, he merely shook his head, still grinning from ear-to-ear.

"You mentioned your family?"

"Yes. I left, but it's not permanent. I promised to return. They're all… waiting for me."

He softened. "Are you all close?"

"The closest possible for me," She told him, a hint of longing in her voice. "The doctor, Carlisle, lead the coven. At first it was only him and Edward—"

"Wait," He interrupted. "Carlisle? Carlisle Cullen?"

She turned surprised. "You've heard of him?"

"How do you know him?" He pressed, excitement lighting his features.

"He's the one that turned me. My father, in a sense. Why?"

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**WATCH THE VIDEO OF ROSALIE AND HARRY **(in case you missed it):

**/watch?v=utOm8BseDok **(put that **behind youtube **usual link, because **fanfictionnet **won't let me post links)

or if it's too much of a mouthful to type, then just go to (**youtube link** ) **/ user / flarsanzian** (it's the latest video I posted)

**Really, watch it. That video is inspired by this chapter, and vice-versa. I strongly believe that it will help you experience the story better.**

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**FOR YOU MY OLD READERS, from now on, you can finally review! We've passed the last six chapters!**

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**Before you scream at me claiming that this is too soon - they had been exposed to each other every day for over a month. Besides; QUALITY over QUANTITY of interaction.**

**AND it isn't the ending folks - this isn't the end game. We've barely just begun!**

**ALSO I've added a bit to the Death and Harry conversation in chapter 1. It clears their ordeals a little. If any of you have questions regarding the whole Harry as MoD and why Harry feared he might not get to be in afterlife, just ask in your review. Or PM me. Either way, I'm happy to answer!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

High Highs - A Real Hero (College ft. Electric Youth cover. It's the one I used in the video; it's my number one muse. Listen to it. Seriously)

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ALSO: **LOOKING FOR A BETA**

I need a beta to edit the grammar, diction, sentence flow mistakes or anything technical. I'm not requiring the beta to help me with plot and characterization, since that tends to prolong the gap between updates, but criticism regarding those points are always welcome. I will be using e-mails, so I need someone that is comfortable enough to give me their e-mail address. If any of you is interested, PM me. Thanks!

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**

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**I'm sorry to announce that I will be taking a month hiatus for college-related research in a secluded island. The next update will be no sooner than 14 August. **


	8. Stranger in Town

**REALLY sorry about the late update. I won't bore you with the details - here is chapter 8. Sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing_ PhoenixFanatic999!**

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_"We lie beneath the stars at night_

_Our hands gripping each other tight_

_You keep my secrets hope to die_

_Promises, swear them to the sky"_

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**#8**

**Stranger in Town**

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There was nothing unique about Seattle at the first glance. Gigantic buildings, bright traffic lights, massive loud crowds—it was nearly identical to other cities in the States he'd visited. It was majestic, but dull. The same things stood at every corner, tall and regal but never welcoming. Between the giants the humans strived. Chatters and laughter erupted everywhere, but the scenery still seemed bleak in his eyes.

Yet, as he sat beside her on top of a skyscraper and the sight of city lights with dark sky laid bare before their eyes, he accepted that this wasn't bad in the slightest.

"Nervous?"

"A little," Harry admitted. Beside him, Rosalie smiled, half-mocking and half-encouraging. Of all people he knew, she was the only one that could pull it off.

Carlisle had been his original goal. The man was what motivated him through the blistering heat of the sun and the crippling cold of the storm. Harry had had his eyes set on a certain tiny ball of light that he had vowed to fly around the world if he had to. And he had meant every word. Until he stumbled upon something that disrupted the course of his journey.

Her sudden intrusion was, for the lack of better word, life-changing. He'd been fascinated by her. By the cold, calculating exterior of the most enchanting beauty he'd ever witnessed. By the hollowness in her golden eyes, the bitter curve of her lips. By the bizarre idea of a woman so gifted by life detesting life itself.

When everything about her slowly became unveiled, inch by inch, he'd found himself pulled down into the depth of her abyss. His goal was long forgotten; anything else didn't seem to matter—why would they, when he'd got the chance to uncover the most tantalizing mystery of his life?

Carlisle's name had been long gone from his mind. At least, until she casually threw it in his face.

"I'm still beating myself over the fact that I didn't just _ask."_

Rosalie allowed a small, chiming laugh. "If you did, we'd probably go straight to Carlisle. And it wouldn't lead to this."

"This—?"

Her fingers grazed his, cold and surprising but always welcomed.

"Would it?" She asked, as if the answer couldn't have been more obvious.

He gave her a small smile.

"It would. Either way, in the end, it would."

They fell to silence, allowing each other serenity among the buzzing of the city. She rested her head at the crook of his neck. It was clear that she didn't need to, but he had no complaints. He marveled at the distant scent of ocean in her hair, the slight glow in its sun-kissed locks.

As no words were exchanged, the loudest voice was the nagging worry in his head. "What is Carlisle like?"

He could hear her smile. "Wise. Kind. He's ancient—the most experienced among us."

"How old is he? How many are you lot?"

She glared at his impatience. He grinned.

"We're a coven of six. Carlisle is our leader. Sire, for most of us. He's been a doctor longer than many of us have been alive. His wife, Esme, takes the maternal position. Fitting, really. She's not the oldest, but she possesses this… _motherly _quality that only few have. The perfect match for Carlisle. Together, they're almost too kind to be believable."

He didn't know these people. He hadn't met them. There was also a real chance that Rosalie was being unintentionally subjective. Yet those reasons held no significance—by the image she'd painted in his head, he was dying to see and judge for himself.

"So he met her and then searched for others?"

She shook her head slightly. "Not quite. Esme was the second addition to our family. He met someone else first. Edward. A dying boy in a small hospital in Chicago. His mother's last breath was a plea for Carlisle to save him. After almost two hundred years, Edward was the first one he turned."

He'd noticed the lowering of her glance, the tiny upturn of the corners of her mouth. Then, it struck him.

"He's your boggart."

At once, her eyes turned to his in complete shock. He felt a flicker of jealousy. A dead body as a boggart meant the most important person of one's life. For her, it was a handsome bronze-haired man with roughly the same age as herself.

Then he recalled her answer from back then, when the world consisted only of two of them and no other variables mattered.

"Family?" He asked quietly, hoping that his insecurity and fear were restrained enough to not be heard.

As she looked at him, golden eyes piercing his chest, he knew she saw through him. She leaned in. He complied. Their lips touched and everything came back into his head like a wave of ocean. Her diamond skin scattering the light, her hair of gold soaked in salt water. The look in her face when she knew what he was. And then who he was. The ancient rune books he'd never bothered to read, the mug of blood she'd drunk like a cup of tea, the Firebolt, the bonfire, the patronus…

Every rise and fall of tides that were their interactions, every restrained word that remained unspoken, every fallacy and deceit they tried to pull. Everything came to this point, to where he knew he'd trusted her when all she'd expressed on this subject was a simple, breath-taking gesture.

"Nothing more," She whispered.

He smiled against her. Her words refuted not all of his jealousy, but they managed to keep those thoughts at bay. The conversation turned lighter, even if the subject stayed the same.

"So for two hundred years, Carlisle was all alone?"

"Yes. He made friends, certainly. His good nature attracts others, but his diet became a barrier against any potential bonds. They couldn't understand the point of abstaining from human blood, and he couldn't bear witnessing bloodbaths they created. So he walked from covens to covens, making friends but never family."

Empathy rose in his abdomen. Spending eternity alone with one's thoughts, desperate for bonds yet finding none. No one should ever strive through that, much less for two hundred years. The revelation shook him. Partly because of Carlisle Cullen's story, but mostly because such fate could have easily been his.

"The loneliness became too much," He completed softly. "Somewhere along the road, he encountered my mentor."

Recognition sparked in her eyes. "Ah, yes. Albus Dumbledore. How did they meet?"

"Not sure. It can't be much earlier than 1900s, and no later than 1945."

Rosalie peered at him curiously. "That's a long yet oddly precise range."

"Dumbledore was born between the middle and late 18th century. He'd have to have met Carlisle as an adult, since he spent his youth following Grindelwald. I imagine Grindelwald's loyal partner wouldn't be a subject of Carlisle's interest, given Grindelwald's reputation. And it can't be any later than 1945—that was the year he defeated Grindelwald and started to dwell at Hogwarts until his passing."

That she was impressed was transparent to him. He smirked. In return, she rolled her eyes and continued, "Well, so in 1917, Carlisle was working at a hospital in Chicago. He was attending to a woman dying from Spanish influenza. Her son was subject to the same disease, but he never stole Carlisle's attention until his mother, with her very last breath, begged Carlisle to save her son."

"And Edward became one of you?"

Rosalie nodded. "He was the first one Carlisle turned. He was taught Carlisle's diet and he abided. But a few years later, his thirst couldn't be subdued anymore—he fled, and started hunting humans."

His body went still. It caught her attention in an instant; she turned to face him, defiance in her eyes. Yet, the voice that welcomed him was gentle. "You disapprove, don't you?"

Shame washed over him. He winced, conceding, "I'm trying to understand."

"You can't," She said simply. "You have to experience it to understand. The thirst is detrimental to our moral, yet essential for our survival. _Blood calls. _It overpowers our senses, our minds. The scent sets our throats on fire. Clouds our mind from coherence. And once you consume human blood, you can never forget the taste. For me, to stop after you've tried is most admirable."

As she spoke, he became increasingly aware of the touch of their hands, his beating pulse under her fingers.

"Is this hurting you?"

The sudden change of topic surprised her. And there it was again. She was looking at him like she couldn't believe him, torn between sentiment and incredulity.

Abruptly, his face was in her hands.

"One day," She resolved fiercely. "You're going to think about yourself as much as you do everyone else."

He attempted to protest, but she moved her fingers over his mouth. With a hint of smugness, she continued, "And no. I didn't notice it at first, but your scent isn't as tempting as others—"

"_Thanks_," would've been his muffled reply.

"—for some reasons. It's similar to old stones, with a little bit of rain."

She released her fingers, but he caught it easily. Pulling them to his lips, he thought of how he'd always loved the smell of rain since he was a child, forced to tend to Petunia's garden even in the worst of weather. Old stones reminded him of Hogwarts, of the earthiness of Gryffindor's common room. The two of them were a huge part of his growth from child to man. To hear that he smelled like them placed serenity in his mind.

"Edward stopped, though. After a few years, he returned to Carlisle and never looked back."

A tiny smile made its way to his mouth. "That's good."

She seemed content. "Yes. After that, Carlisle met Esme. She was his patient, and they felt instant connection, but Esme was married. It was not a happy one; her husband was a vile, abusive man. Then she was pregnant, and her baby was the only good thing in her life—even if the father was her husband. But a year after she met Carlisle, she had miscarriage. It broke her. She'd lost her husband long ago, and then she lost her son. She became so devastated that she jumped off a cliff. She nearly died; the hospital immediately concluded that she had. But Carlisle found her, and then changed her.

"Carlisle is the best thing that has ever happened to her. Edward became her son, even with the age difference. Still, the memory of the son she'd lost still hurt her to this day."

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. For a good minute, he'd lost his speech, and she was giving him time to absorb it.

"Then they met you."

"Then they met me," She smiled a little. "Carlisle turned me. Somehow we became a family. It almost felt complete, until one day a pair of strangers came knocking at our door. They—"

Rosalie stopped. Her eyes were gazing at faraway distance with increasing frown. Then, straightaway, she stood.

"There's a fight," She whispered. "Vampires. It's _them_."

In a flash, she disappeared from his side. A tiny part of him sighed at another sudden departure, but then he recalled that the only other time she acted this way was when something important to her was involved. With this in mind, he summoned his Firebolt into his hand and sped through towering buildings and traffic lights.

One, three, nine intersections, and finally the scene laid bare ahead of him. In between two gaunt buildings, all the way to the back with light so low that humans would have no desire to visit, chaos erupted. To others, it was a blur and sounds of explosion. But with eyes of a seeker and Death's magic flowing in his veins, he could see clearly enough. There were at least ten vampires, each looking so alike that there was no way to tell allies and foes apart.

Then he spotted her. A golden head amidst the sea of dark locks and dirty browns; there she was, twisting, turning, and kicking like a spinning blade. Enchanting and deadly.

Suddenly a form loomed over her back. Before he could register who it was, he fired a concentrated Reducto through the air. The form barely had the chance to turn and widen his eyes—the spell crashed fully against his face, shooting ice shards all over the walls.

The battle stopped. Each pair of eyes turned to him, shock crystal clear in each of their stony faces.

Rosalie took this chance to decapitate her opponent with one fluid move.

With that, the catastrophe continued. Three red-eyed vampires charged in his direction. So fast and yet so slow in his eyes; he could see their every move, every pair of eyes full of mindless bloodlust. The one on the right was the most eager. Several meters away and Harry could see him baring his teeth, sharp as a knife, soaked with his venom. He was also the fastest. Harry powered the spell between his hands and positioned his target—

But before either of them even moved a feet away from their position, the eager one was slammed sideways. A blur of blonde, its shade identical to Rosalie's. Harry had no clue of who he was, but for the time being, he silently thanked the helpful vampire.

The other two ignored their ally and sped like a pair of bullets. Their movement was brutish. As though they were bulls and he was painted red. The moment they nearly reached him, Harry turned upwards, performing half of a somersault. Then time stopped. With vampires right below him, open-mouthed and fear in their red eyes, he fired.

His curse crushed them several feet into the ground. The sound was deafening. Without much thought, he swung his arm and cast a ward at the entrance of the alley.

Beneath him, one of them rose, and Harry blew her head into bits.

When he looked up, in front of him stood Rosalie. Her expression remained stoic, but he could see her apparent nervousness. Then, as if he had forgotten he could move, he pulled her into him. Ironically it was like jumping into warm water after storm. He hadn't realized it before; his heartbeat exploding in his head, his chest filled with air yet feeling so empty. He tightened his arms around her and kissed her temple. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to its rhythm.

She seemed pleased when he released her. "Not a scratch."

He easily returned, "I expected no less."

The moment was broken when he noticed _them_. The two remaining vampires. Both golden-eyed, both staring at them with pure astonishment. They stood as still as a statue, until finally, the short female vampire moved. She crashed against Rosalie's body. At once Harry reacted with alarm, but he lowered his wand when he realized two things: the male vampire was ready to sink his teeth in Harry's neck, and the female was _hugging _Rosalie.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—"

Sobs echoed in the alley. Harry felt his jaw open.

"Rosalie!" The dark-haired vampire squealed, beaming through tears. "You came back. _You came back."_

Rosalie visibly softened. "I came home."

When the female vampire finally released her hug, Rosalie turned to the companion. His expression turned into joy when he pulled Rosalie into a bone-crashing hug, but Harry knew the blonde male was still watching Harry from the corner of his eyes.

"I knew you'd come home soon," The blonde male said. There was surprising gentleness in his voice.

"Spoilers from Alice?"

"No. Just a feeling," He returned cheekily. "I don't need her gift to know you're missing home."

Then, in an instant, as if Harry had suddenly barged into their space instead of being locked by his own feet, they all turned to him. The two strangers stood still, stunned in their uncertainty. He was quickly reminded of their uncanny physical similarities—they could easily posed as biological siblings.

Rosalie moved to his side with the speed of a human, and took his hand into hers. He didn't realize that he was feeling increasingly nauseous; her cold touch against his skin helped.

"Rosalie," The one called Alice sang, _hopping _with barely-contained excitement. "Who is this?"

Rosalie's posture was rigid, and the hand that held his felt awkward. She appeared hesitant. Not from shame, Harry decided with relief, as he saw the way she slightly shielded him. It wasn't protective either; it was _possessive_, the way she kept her other hand on his chest.

Alice took a step forward. Jasper seemed rather alarmed, but stayed still. She snuck out a hand.

"Alice. Resident vampire," She declared sweetly. "And this is Jasper."

"Pleasure to meet you," The blonde slurred, exhibiting none of his earlier animosity, but it was apparent to Harry that it still existed.

The blatant attempt of figuring out what he was made him chuckle.

"Harry," He replied. "Foreign wizard."

Disbelief at once dawned in their faces but it gradually decreased as seconds passed by. It was a rational explanation to what they had witnessed of him—as rational as the notion of magic could be. Jasper was unmoving for ten good seconds, mouthing the word "wizard" as if repeating it would help him understand. Beside him, Alice's lips formed a perfect 'O' and peered at him closely.

"Are you human?" Alice asked, wide-eyed.

"Define _human_."

Rosalie snorted. Harry didn't bother to hide his amusement. Both Jasper and Alice seemed at lost, but she quickly recovered. "Your heart's beating." She touched his arm. "There's blood under your skin."

Harry shrugged.

"Oh!" Alice exclaimed. "And I can't see you."

Jasper snapped out of his shock. Distrust returned to his eyes as he looked at Harry. "You can't?"

Harry turned to Rosalie to ask what the hell was going on, but she already answered, seemingly unfazed by whatever it was that stirred the couple. "She can see the future. She means she can't see yours."

Jasper's gaze went to Rosalie instead, clearly troubled by her declaration. Rosalie didn't seem to notice—or perhaps she chose to ignore it—as intrigue showed across her face.

Then Rosalie's words fully hit. _The ability to see the future. _It was impossible; it wasn't even highly unlikely, but completely, undoubtedly _impossible. _The secret of Time would never be implicitly revealed to magic-less mortals. For a _vampire _to possess such an ability—

A piercing scream resounded through his head, banging like a gong, hot rage burning in his chest. He almost moved from his spot to decapitate this descendant of thieving, tricking despicable _abomination _until his eyes locked with hers and he was reminded that they were not the color of blood. They were golden.

And that this irrational, seething anger he felt wasn't his to begin with.

He brought himself to his surrounding, to the wary gaze of Alice and he smiled. He hoped it was genuine enough. "Brilliant. Do you mind if we talk more about your power later? Wizards have Divination, but it isn't famous for its efficiency."

Alice, albeit with mild confusion, smiled pleasantly. "My pleasure!"

The reaction from her partner couldn't be more different. Gone was all the pretense of warmth, he was now fully on to Harry, his eyes menacing and venom dripping from his razor-sharp teeth.

_Dangerous, _Harry noted. The scars all over the vampire's body was more than enough indication of what this vampire version of Moody could do. Harry brought down two vampires in five seconds. Jasper brought down three.

A second passed. They were already too close, and time was moving too slowly. Jasper had acted, but Harry locked his muscles in place. Rosalie had already beaten him to it.

Face to face, blonde to blonde, Rosalie hissed. "What do you think you're doing?"

His eyes never left Harry. Simply, he replied, "Precaution."

There was desperate restraint in his voice. As if he knew he could convince Rosalie of his reasons if only he could say it without revealing the secret to the stranger.

This time, Harry was faster than Rosalie. "You will all have your chance to interrogate me."

"No," Rosalie interjected tensely. "It will not be like that."

"I'm afraid it has to be."

He hoped the dread in his voice couldn't be heard. How could Carlisle Cullen accept him if they knew who he was from the beginning?

"No," She spoke again. This time it echoed in the alleys, ringing with her conviction. "You won't tell them anything you don't want to."

Jasper took a step forward. Alice's hand fell to his arm, but Jasper ignored it.

"And if we demand it?"

Rosalie met his eyes, golden eyes brighter than the sun. "Then we'll leave."

* * *

The journey to Forks was heavy with silence by both Rosalie and Jasper, but it was surprisingly eventful, even if a little awkward. Harry sat directly behind the driver's seat so Jasper could keep his eyes both on the road _and _Harry. It was a difficult decision to make; five minutes of heated debate transpired between Rosalie and Jasper, until Harry decided he'd heard enough and offered to sit there willingly. Half the car ride, he still wondered if he'd made the best choice, because Rosalie seemed upset and Jasper didn't appear any less antagonistic.

Alice looked unfazed by all of this. It was easy to like her. Normally Harry hated anyone who talked this much, but Alice's excitement and overall liveliness didn't seem forced. It was a breath of fresh air in this choking silence.

Her blatant curiosity, however, was a different matter.

"So, Harry. You fly really fast."

Even he was thrown by her casual mention of his flying broom. The normality in the air around her made the situation even more absurd.

"Well, I played as a seeker," Harry answered. "In Quidditch—a game with flying brooms and balls—seeker is the one that ends the game. It has to be the fastest one on the team."

There was silence. Then, Alice screeched.

"There's a _sport_ with _flying brooms_?" She grabbed Jasper's shoulder and shook it violently. "Jasper. Sport. With. Flying. Brooms."

To Jasper's credit, their car stayed straight on the lane. He looked mildly annoyed, but Alice went on, "Quidditch is a weird name for a game, isn't it? How many players are there? What are the positions, aside from the seeker? Is seeker the only one—OH, you _have _to let me try it!"

Harry opened his mouth, and closed it again. Alice interjected further, as her face fell. "Wait—do you need to be a wizard to fly a broom?"

"You can't fly it by yourself," Harry hastily answered, before she beat him to it again. "But you can go on a ride with a wizard to fly it. Rosalie has tried."

Rosalie, previously drowned in the sight of heavy rain by the car window, turned to Harry, eyes blazing.

Alice, on the other hand, lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Interesting," She peered at Rosalie, who now turned her fiery glare to the dark-haired vampire. Unabashed, Alice opened her mouth to continue shooting questions, but no sounds came out.

Rather, no sound could be heard. Alice's gaze was back at the road, but her lips remained moving. Behind her, Rosalie was doing the same thing. They were conversing only in the lowest of whispers, inaudible to his human hearing. Honestly, he didn't mind. Many things happened that day, and more could happen once he met the rest of them. If this was the only time he'd have the privilege of silence for the rest of the day, then he'd welcome it gladly.

The sign 'Welcome to Forks' couldn't be any smaller, yet it stood out among dark green trees and grey road. Rain continued pouring down the city as if cleansing it inside out. There was no duller image that he'd seen; it might as well have been a lifeless town.

Strangely enough, none of the inhabitants at the street looked even slightly uncomfortable with the weather. Some of them even kept their umbrellas shut, letting rain drench their body, blending their beings with soaked earth beneath their feet. Even more strange was that he had the pull to do the same.

"We're here," Alice announced. Her voice shattered his train of thought. Abruptly, the massive green scenery around them was dwarfed by the sight of a luxurious, three-story house with too much transparency to be resided by vampires.

Following Alice, Jasper exited the car. Rosalie reached for the door knob, but then she turned to face him.

Then, like thousands of bricks wrecking against his chest, Harry realized just how close he was to his goal. The one that started all of this months ago. He'd been dying to reach this point, to step his feet on the ground Carlisle Cullen walked on, to see the man he'd heard so much about. Their meeting would be the ending of his adventure. And he both yearned for it and dreaded it all at the once. This was the moment to decide: whether he wanted his fantasy to remain so, or to be realized and fail miserably.

Harry was nowhere near the man Carlisle would approve. There was too much blood on his hands, too many lives he took. Too many memories that haunted him in his wake, in his sleep. All the screaming and shouting inside his head—how could he condemn the man by bringing this into his home too?

Abruptly, Rosalie's lips were on his own. It stole all his breath, all his thoughts, and the wholeness of his heartbeat. It was quick, too quick, but by the time it was over, he no longer had difficulty breathing.

"Thank you," He whispered.

Her eyes were only on his. "You have _nothing_ to worry about."

He took her icy fingers into his and kissed them lightly. "I know."

When the two of them stepped out of the car, both Alice and Jasper were staring intently. The short vampire's smile could have lit the whole town. Behind her, Jasper seemed uncertain, but cautious nonetheless.

"Wait," said Rosalie, her hand swiftly swiping over his bangs, forcing it to fall flat backwards.

It was a small, seemingly inconsequential gesture, but he was so used to covering his forehead that the sudden absence felt alien.

"You've always hidden your scar like it was something to be ashamed of. But the way I see it, this is your parents' legacy. This is the symbol of their victory that night—it's a part of you too."

Five years ago, he would have hated it. He might even hate it now, if those words came out of George's or Ginny's mouth, because they knew exactly what this scar had done to him. They saw it firsthand. This woman touching his hair knew nothing, ignorant to the sporadic chain of events that happened because of this tiny scar. And because she knew nothing that he could tell it was genuine. That what she truly wanted was for him to let go of his shame, to let this part of him be himself too. Because they were far from the watchful gazes of wizarding folks, and all that mattered now was her and himself, he couldn't find anger in him.

All he could do was to nod, let wind brush his uncovered forehead, and kiss her for the last time before they reached the point of no return.

"Ready now, lovebirds?" Alice called, Jasper trailing behind her.

"The most ready I could ever be," Harry muttered.

Rosalie let out a chiming, little laugh. It sounded like heaven in his ears. Hand in hand, they walked up the stairs and knocked the front door, signaling the rest of the Cullens that were waiting for them inside.

The door opened slowly, deliberately, as if the vampire behind it couldn't summon her strength to pull the feeble piece of wood. Then as if to compensate, the woman who opened it jumped on Rosalie in a flash. He could see her pale hands shaking, trailing Rosalie's back as though she needed reminder that this was real, that this was her daughter that she was hugging. This was undoubtedly Esme. In the first few seconds of seeing her, everything Rosalie told him about her was validated.

Time seemed to stop. It felt as though it was mocking him. There he was, feet glued at the front door, while the rest of the vampires were hugging and smiling and crying in their reunion. Rosalie appeared to be impatient, a bit embarrassed even, but he could see genuine emotion in her eyes as Esme enveloped both her and Carlisle in a hug, Alice dancing around them, throwing imaginary petals that Jasper pretended to catch. Even the most stoic of them all, the one that could only be Edward, was unable to hide his smile.

No - at that moment, he couldn't see them as _vampires. _He didn't see razor-sharp fangs and supernatural strength. He saw a family. He saw something he'd always wanted long ago, since he watched Dudley's third birthday party from the crack of cupboard door.

He saw something he _thought_ he had with the Weasleys, before death tore everything apart.

All it took to break the silence was a glance. _Her _glance. Abruptly she turned to him, possibly aware of this irrational feeling he was having. And once she gave him her attention, the others' eyes flocked to him, and he went from being invisible to center of the attention in the room.

Her hand took his. It was ironic how her icy temperature gave him warmth, how her almost-nervous straight-lined lips made him smile a little. He let her guide him across the room, until eventually, they stood in front of the one who could only be Carlisle Cullen.

He'd rehearsed this moment in his head so much that everything was forgotten right then.

Rosalie saved him, "This is Harry."

The woman that opened the door was the first one to move. Out of the blue, she hugged him tightly. It reminded him of Mrs. Weasley back when her family was still whole and laughing; when he was still a part of it.

"Welcome," The kind woman smiled, tears in her eyes. "I'm Esme. We've been waiting for you for so long."

Rosalie made an exasperated noise. Harry smiled widely, but said nothing as Carlisle started to speak, "I'm—"

"Carlisle Cullen," Harry automatically filled in. The rest of the room gave him odd looks—aside from Rosalie, who seemed to be _enjoying _this—but Carlisle himself simply seemed intrigued.

"Rosalie told you about us already?"

"Yes, but that's not why I know you," Harry said. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, this isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm Harry Potter, a graduate from Hogwarts. Your old friend, Albus Dumbledore, told me about you."

There was a beat of silence. The others didn't seem to understand a single word.

"I'm sorry," Carlisle asked, polite confusion in his face. "Who is Albus Dumbledore?"

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**ANOTHER VIDEO! Okay, don't judge me. I edit videos when I get writer's block. (I love this one so much more, so be sure to watch it!)**

**/watch?v=tf8EQk0iH80**(put that **behind youtube **usual link, because **fanfictionnet **won't let me post links)

or if it's too much of a mouthful to type, then just go to (**youtube link** ) **/ user / flarsanzian** (it's the latest video I posted)

**In this one, I tried to visualize some scenes... Or some places, at least. The beach, Harry's tent, and so on.**

**WATCH IT!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

The Naked and the Famous - Young Blood (slow version) (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


	9. Of Memories

**This update is even later than I thought it would be... *laughs nervously* I'm truly sorry. I am. Life happens - hopefully yours have been alright these past few months. Here's the ninth, hopefully it's not disappointing after _months. _I'm terrible, I know. Again, sorry.**

**Sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing _PhoenixFanatic999!**

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_"I know this means more than the truth would have_

_had I not held onto the tricks for so long"_

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**#9**

**Of Memories**

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"_A vampire," said Dumbledore. "Ancient and brilliant like myself. But unlike me, his kindness knows no bounds. His name is Carlisle Cullen."_

"_Carlisle Cullen?" He repeated, testing the name._

"_An old friend of mine," Dumbledore spoke wistfully, faraway look in his eyes. Then, as if the memory slapped him, he flinched and turned his attention back to Harry. "Off you go, my boy. Tell him it's a shame we never had the chance for reunion, will you?"_

"Who is Albus Dumbledore?"

The query was so innocent, so unaware of the wreckage it brought into his mind. Carlisle's pale face remained polite even in confusion, interested but clueless about what Harry was referring to. Harry searched Carlisle's eyes. He found nothing but genuine lack of knowledge of who was supposed to be his old friend.

Feigning ignorance of his friendships didn't seem to be in Carlisle's character. And despite Dumbledore's past manipulation and wrongdoings, feigning friendships didn't seem to be in his either.

Then again, perhaps he thought too highly of Carlisle. Or he trusted his old headmaster too much, even with every caution and consideration he took when it came to hearing the deceased man's words.

_Perhaps, _the optimist in his mind whispered. _Both sides tell no lies._

Carefully, as if Carlisle's answer would bite him, Harry asked, "You have no idea of him? Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts? He might use a different name, but he should be easily distinguished from the rest. Too clever for his own good, with a little bit of cunning?"

He could feel the others' eyes went back and forth from him to Carlisle, as though they were watching tennis.

Carlisle smiled almost painfully. "I've met too many people in my life that fit your description."

Impatience sped his speaking. "No. He's not just _people; _he's Albus Dumbledore. He's the_ great_ Albus Dumbledore, the brilliant wizard, possibly the best we had for a long time. The Leader of the Light, the one who won against Grindelwald. The only one Voldemort had ever feared."

When all he received was a blank stare, Harry continued, desperation creeping into his voice. "Perhaps you met him when he was young. He was a clever wizard, with crooked nose and blue eyes, adept in transfiguration. It's impossible to mistake him for someone else, let alone forget him—"

"You've said it twice," Edward interrupted. It was the first time he acknowledged Harry. His voice was hard, his eyes calm but ablaze with vigilance. Here was another man in the house that didn't trust Harry. "_Wizard._"

That was when it dawned on him. _Carlisle never told them. _Rosalie didn't know anything about the wizarding world the first time they met either.

"You never told them," Harry muttered. It wasn't a question.

But it might have as well been, because Carlisle's increasingly confused look spoke great volumes.

"You never knew either," Harry whispered, revelation crashed his knees like a wrecking ball. He fell back to an armchair he never knew was there. Then again, Rosalie was directly behind him now. Her hand was on the edge of the chair and then moved to his shoulder.

_Then what? Dumbledore __**lied**__?_

Was he that desperate to swallow a lie so easily? Did he trust his dead mentor too much? But what on earth would a _portrait _gain from lying about this? Was Dumbledore's motivation for the Greater Good so huge that it transcended beyond death? But wasn't the threat over? Wasn't he off whatever scheme Dumbledore could be planning now?

He remembered Dumbledore as he spoke of Carlisle. He saw the longing in his eyes. He would like to think that he could differentiate such emotion from pretenses, but perhaps he thought of himself too highly.

"Or he doesn't remember," Rosalie added. Her voice was devoid of emotion, but Harry could detect the weight in her tone.

"Unlikely," Harry answered lowly. "You know it's impossible to be done."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't quite follow," Carlisle interrupted, his expression growing increasingly apprehensive. "What do you mean by _wizard_?"

Harry opened his mouth, but someone had already spoken first. It was Edward, the one who stood the farthest but looked at Harry most closely. His eyes were wide, and he seemed as if he had swallowed something sour. This would be the face of an atheist in front of the proof of god.

"He is," Edward struggled. "That's what he calls himself. _Wizard."_

The term sounded alien from Edward's tongue, and most likely to the others' ears as well.

"Wizard?" Esme repeated blankly.

"Sorcerer, warlock, magus, enchanter," Edward shot. "Wizard. A man that manipulates air density in localized areas, creates fire out of nothing, destroys vampire bodies, changes sound frequency in again localized areas, basically manipulating—"

"—magic," Harry finished for him.

Edward gritted his teeth. "Magic isn't real."

And it was at that very moment that Harry finally realized what it was that had been bugging him. It wasn't something misplaced, nor was it some evil plot unseen by his eyes, but that since he stepped into the door, there had been constant offenses against his Occlumency. The attempt was so subtle that he mistook it for his own frustration with the situation. Only then, when his head was clearer, that the light poke turned into a rather rude knocking on the door of his mind.

Apart from the three Cullens, only the one staring into his eyes with conviction right now could be the invader. Alice could see the future. Having her brother to have another kind of freakish talent didn't seem to be a stretch.

"You've seen it, haven't you?" Harry asked, realizing now that that was why he was already wary at Harry the first time Harry stepped into the front door. "In Jasper's and Alice's mind. You already know, then. Magic is real."

When all that remained on Edward's face was denial, Harry whipped out his wand. The reactions were varied; Esme almost jumped, Carlisle stood straighter, Edward took a step back and bared his teeth, Jasper held a fighting stance, Alice _actually _jumped, while Rosalie remained unmoving behind him. Somehow, without needing to see her, he knew she was enjoying this.

All at once, as if a sudden storm entered the living room, every object from tiny to huge was levitated. The large ones slowly rotated in the air, rebelling against gravity while the smaller ones rode the wind and circled the room like a hurricane.

"What you saw in Jasper and Alice's mind might have been a trick," Harry said softly. "But then what is this, Edward?"

The astonishment in their faces couldn't be hidden, not even Edward, who was now gaping openly. Esme looked like she was seeing all the stars in the sky fell. Jasper's posture couldn't be more rigid, but his arms were continuously failing to take hold of Alice who was dancing in the midst of it, laughing like a girl under rain in a drought. Carlisle was open-mouthed, fear-stricken, but he was smiling, and Harry could see that this was _familiar _to him, even if Carlisle himself didn't notice it. This wasn't the first time the ancient vampire was exposed to magic.

Then perhaps, both side indeed told no lies.

"Does this seem familiar to you?" Harry asked to Carlisle, who turned his head to Harry so fast that if he were human he would have broken his neck.

Hesitantly, Carlisle reached out his hand. The movement was robotic. Harry could have sworn he saw the tips of Carlisle's fingers shaking as they touched the current of the tiny hurricane. The moment magic grazed his skin, Harry could see that at least Carlisle's senses remembered this.

Not a single word was spoken. Every pair of eyes were on Carlisle, who was now staring at his hand like it had turned to steel. He closed his knuckles, released it, and did it again and again until he looked up and stared straight to Harry.

"Yes," Carlisle breathed.

And like the vampire, Harry felt the sudden need to sit.

"Impossible," Harry muttered. "Utterly, completely _impossible."_

Esme's shaking voice broke the silence.

"I don't understand," She whispered. "What – what is this? What are you talking about?"

"Someone tampered with Carlisle's mind," Edward answered, speaking what Carlisle was unable to. "Possibly, someone in the past used this… _magic _to erase Carlisle's knowledge about it."

"That's not possible," Harry said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Vampire's mind is too detailed, too perfect to tamper. No magic can erase that much data."

"No magic that you know, maybe?" Jasper's voice rolled as smooth and sharp as a knife.

Harry's head snapped up to meet Jasper's eyes. Behind him, Rosalie took a sharp breath. Edward's gaze turned to her immediately. His frown grew, and Harry swallowed the feeling of indignation at the notion that Edward saw _their _intimate moment.

He directed his mind to more important matters.

"Can you remember anything? Or recall something that seems out of place, something that shouldn't be there?"

Carlisle's gaze returned to his hand, where magic touched him last.

"No."

"There has to be a loophole," Harry said, almost desperately. "A glaring gap in your memory. You're a vampire. It'll have to be as obvious as having a hole in your chest."

When the ever-eloquent vampires seemed to lose their speech, Harry stood, unable to bear the silence any more. "I'll take Dumbledore's portrait here. He knows better than I do."

"You can't remove Headmaster's portrait from the wall," Rosalie pointed out. "Not since Sirius Black attempted in 1977."

Jasper raised his eyebrows. "How can you know more than he does?"

Rosalie flashed him a satisfied smirk; one that Harry knew too well.

"Then I'll go to him," Harry countered. He couldn't postpone this. He needed answers _now. _"I'll speak to him myself."

Rosalie didn't answer. Neither did the rest of the room. Harry could have apparated right then and there, and soon every suspicion and doubt he had for Dumbledore would be either confirmed or denied. But he didn't move. His eyes were glued on the sight of them, on how their earlier cheer turned to _this _so abruptly all because of what he said.

Like a wave of sea crashing against his face, Harry realized that this little mystery could wait. He remembered his first encounter with magic; he could still feel the lingering thrill and wonder as he saw the works of magic for the first time, as he saw the way world lit up with magic in the air he breathed.

"I'm sorry," Harry spoke quietly. Carlisle looked up, seeming surprised. "To have brought this you. I honestly thought you knew."

Carlisle blinked a few times. It _was _a huge pile of information to dump on someone on their first meeting, especially when most of it was something the vampire never knew he knew. A vampire relied everything on their superior senses and memory; to have that privilege taken in a blink of an eye would no doubt be distressing.

A small, genuine smile slowly grew on Carlisle's face.

"It's quite alright," said Carlisle. Harry could still see that the ancient man was shaken, but it was barely noticeable now. Harry wondered if Jasper had anything to do with it, but perhaps it was more for the new presence of Esme's hands holding his. "It's certainly news, but research can wait. We have all been dying to meet you."

With few simple sentences spoken, the air cleared. An almost devilish grin spread over Alice's face. Esme beamed, leaning into Carlisle's form. Jasper wasn't smiling, but at least he wasn't baring his teeth anymore. Behind him, Edward watched intently. The push against his head became bolder, but Harry focused his attention to Carlisle.

"Likewise," Harry returned. "It's quite an adventure, really, reaching here."

"I can only imagine," Carlisle said, his golden eyes sparkling, eerily similar to Dumbledore's. "And even with everything that has currently been disclosed, with this... _magic _and what I have to call the most joyful news any stranger can bring us—"

Subconsciously, his fingers grazed Rosalie's. Carlisle's smile widened.

"—I can't help but be curious. Why did you search for me in the first place?"

Without thinking, he turned to look at her. There was something he couldn't place in her expression, but she was smiling slightly at him, subtly encouraging.

"My life in Britain was over the moment I learned I was immortal."

He hadn't planned to tell them, not this early, not when it took him a great deal of strength to tell Rosalie. But other than for his fear of rejection, he saw no other reasons to keep it a secret. He had given them the unbelievable; immortality didn't seem to be a stretch after a muggle had learned about the existence of magic.

Still, he expected too much. They didn't react with ease. The room was dead quiet for a split-second, but then Jasper blurted out, "_Immortal?"_

Half-wrapped in his arms, Alice asked with round eyes, "Are all wizards immortal?"

"No, just me," Harry paused, before continuing, "That I know of, at least. And it's kind of a long story actually."

Surprisingly, it was Jasper who shrugged and answered, "We have all night."

Harry eyed him. "I have something else to show you first."

Then, with a flick of a wand, a massive basin overflowed by luminous liquid manifested at the center of the room. Instinctively the Cullens backed away, distrustful of the sudden object, but the next second most of them walked forward to see it, breathe it, touch it. The only exception was Edward, who was as still as statue pressed against the wall.

"All stories are better shown, not told," Rosalie spoke with a hint of fondness. Her fingers traced the surface of the brimming liquid, enticed to touch it again. Briefly his attention turned to her, only now did he notice the way the shining light from the basin was reflected on her diamond skin.

"This is called a Pensieve," Harry said, forcing himself to take his eyes off her. "It's like a diary, of sort. It's used to store and relieve memories. Anyone that soaks their faces in them can see the memory it holds."

Edward's frown hadn't ceased. "And you would have us see only the memories with our backs open?"

"If it's me you're worried about, I'm going in too. If it's the outside intrusion, I can put up protective wards, _or _you can take turns. As for the experience, Rosalie can tell you about it."

He hoped that his attempt to include her in the conversation wasn't as obvious as her silence. Since Jasper's suggestion was voiced, her eyes became distant, undoubtedly lost with the idea of doing to herself what had been done to Carlisle. The thought gnawed at his chest, even as he addressed the others.

"An interesting experience," Rosalie nodded, as though she had been immersed in the conversation all along. "It was as if I was relieving the moment myself. The visual was rather like realistic paintings, and everything sounded almost underwater, but all my senses detected was what the Pensieve provided. I felt no intrusion of reality, until a physical contact forced me out of it."

"You trusted him to do that?"

Edward's tone cracked Rosalie's mask.

"I didn't _trust_ him to do anything. I went into it without his permission, and he took me out of it."

Harry knew that she was talking in past tense, but it _stung. _Something in her tone right then cracked _his _mask.

Jasper perked up at this. "He physically forced you out of it?"

His rigid posture returned, with his eyes taking over Harry's physique with no small amount of disbelief. In contrast to him, Alice's eyes lit up. Both of their attention was not unwarranted, but the discomfort was. Harry shrugged, maintaining a careless air.

Edward was the one who broke the silence. "No."

Rosalie's hiss was music to his ears, as she looked ready to lung at Edward. Harry placed a placating touch on her arm and quickly added, "Does my heartbeat imply that I'm lying? Even if you're convinced that I have some way to disguise it, I'll tell you this: I don't. Wizards don't really concern themselves with disguising what is missed by the human senses. And again, if it still doesn't convince you, do you have so little faith in Rosalie that you don't trust her words?"

Harry watched every one of them closely. This was _her _family. They had lived with her for decades, and thus surely they knew the weight of her words, of her confidence? He had known her for mere months, and while she wasn't an open book—quite the contrary, one of the hardest he'd tried to read—he could see her enough to know that her trust didn't come easily.

But then again, what did he expect? He was a stranger in their home. One of them was unknowingly marked by his world, two had seen him kill their kind with ease, and two out of three talents were unable to affect him.

"I trust Rosalie with my life," Carlisle declared, stepping forward after remaining quiet for a long time. "But you have to understand, both of you, that the danger of Victoria lurks in the shadows of the forest. We need to hold our defense at all times, and for that we need at least a few watching eyes."

"Victoria?" Rosalie repeated, clearly surprised. "The hunter's mate?"

"She returned to avenge him," Edward said. His eyes burned with promise of the evasive redhead's death. "She made a few attempts on Bella's life. She won't any longer."

Rosalie eyed him closely, as if Edward had become a stranger. "And yet here you are, not by her side."

Edward tensed. "She knew you were coming. She asked me to welcome you, while two of her dogs guard her tonight."

"Edward," Esme reprimanded. Edward crossed his arms, but didn't retake his words.

"The Quileutes, you mean?" Rosalie asked incredulously. "You trust_ them_, but not the man I bring home?"

Silence visited. _The man I bring home_. He felt warmth in his chest at the words, even if she uttered it without sparing him a glance.

Then not a second later, he inwardly stifled a groan. He'd completely forgotten that meeting the Cullens had more to it than finding his dead mentor's old friend, not when he was delivered to them in the hands of their reserved daughter. Earlier all of his nervousness could be accounted to their possible reactions of his sudden intrusion to their lives. The aspect of gaining their approval for Rosalie flew over him, and now it twisted his guts with crashing force.

Rosalie's face slackened for a second, before it contorted into sharp anger. She snapped at the vampire that could be her twin. "Shut it, Jasper."

"The Quileutes have no tricks up their sleeves," Jasper said. "The same can't be said with him."

"Then let me show you my tricks," Harry said, and the room grew quiet again.

Rosalie crossed her arms and slouched against the wall. "Everyone can go in at once. I'll stay. I've seen what he'll show."

"I'll stay," Edward said, to no one's surprise. "I can see it from all of you anyway."

Rosalie's smile could chill a Dementor to the bone. "There. Two wolves to guard Edward's Bella, two vampires to guard the rest of the family. A fitting comparison, don't you think?"

Edward ignored the jab. The two of them stood at either side of the room. Harry didn't like the idea of leaving her alone with him, as petty as it was. The fact that Edward's death was her boggart was an ever-present demon behind his back.

Harry placed his wand to his temple. Alice gasped, and Jasper turned rigid. It was then he realized how he must have looked: like holding a gun to his own head. Harry smiled in reassurance to the pixie. As the wand left him, so did the delicate strings of magic holding his memory, fleeing to the basin.

He looked up to the rest of them. The faces of strangers that he'd welcomed to his world. And then, without hesitation, he let the cold water graze against his skin.

The quiet green peeking through the Cullen's living room disappeared into an endless canvas, until ink and noise marred it with bursting colors in the sky and a hundred thousand witches and wizards screaming at the podium. Dozens of Qudditch professionals shot above the crowd, unflinching at the explosion beyond their heads. Harry's heart lurched at the sight. He longed for the childhood dream he never pursued.

He turned his attention to the guests of his memory. Carlisle and Esme had identical looks of awe on their pale faces, rotating in their spot to burn every spectacle into memory. Alice was squealing along with the crowd as she ran _through _them. Jasper stood still, looking almost claustrophobic.

Harry didn't bother to hide his smile. This was what he wanted – to show _magic _for what it truly was. Dangerous, even deadly at the wrong hands, but ultimately beautiful and brilliant and so full of _life._

Alice was trying to jump as high as she could to reach the leprechaun-shaped firework when the scenery morphed into the lively, buzzing street of the Diagon Alley. At the far back, he could see himself; a scrawny child drowned in Dudley's shirt, face filled with awe at the sight of the Wizarding World for the first time.

"Is this you?" Alice giggled as she skipped to his younger self. Harry gave her a smirk.

"Scrawny little kid, wasn't I?"

"At least you grew to be so tall," Alice pouted, barely reaching the top of his head with her stretched hand. "So unfair. I'm pretty sure even I was bigger at your age."

The exhilaration of the World Cup slowly left them. Esme seemed to bask in the screaming and chattering of a nearby group of children in front of the joke shop. Carlisle seemed intrigued by the floating, animated decorations of Florish and Blotts. Alice had proceeded to stalk his younger self to the Ollivander's. The only one that remained unmoving was Jasper. Harry frowned. While his first reaction at the World Cup could be expected, his current silence worried him slightly. What horrors could a man have faced to not be enticed or at the very least interested at the sight of the new, the unknown?

As soon as it came, everything changed. The noisy street disintegrated and from its ink Hogwart's Great Hall emerged. He had chosen the earliest memory of it. Right beside them were Rosalie and himself sitting at the table, as he was explaining to her about the limit and sentience of magic. Hearing the sound of his own voice and watching the interest on her face brought a small smile to his lips; it felt so long ago – so much had happened since then.

He'd torn himself away from their old conversation and expected to see the Cullens gaping at the hall that took the breaths of all young witches and wizards, yet instead they were transfixed to his memory as he was.

"_Do you want me to learn the enchantment?"_ He heard himself ask.

"_You would do that?"_

"_Of course."_

He felt his chest swell when her face lit up, looking at him as though he had won her the world with one insignificant gesture. It was a small moment, pale in the face of their many other memories, but Esme was smiling more widely than Harry had seen her.

"Show us how you met!" Alice exclaimed, suddenly linking her arms around his. If Jasper minded, he didn't show it. His eyes were fixed on Rosalie.

"You'd have to ask Rosalie for that," Harry replied. Alice pouted, but Carlisle glanced at him, both surprised and approving.

"Show us the fight in Seattle."

It was Jasper who spoke. Harry raised his eyebrows, wondering what the blonde's intention was. He was there. His memory was perfect, what use would it be for him?

"So the rest of us can see firsthand what you're capable of," He clarified.

Carlisle's eyes glinted with intrigue, while Esme seemed more interested with Alice's idea. Harry was reluctant to shatter the peaceful, lively image of magic that his memories had portrayed by showing them its destructive forces, but to decline wouldn't appease their worry either.

Harry placed his wand on his temples, smirking at the way Alice and Jasper flinched.

Hogwarts faded with the departed stream of black, replaced by the small alley in Seattle. His past self had arrived in time to stop a rogue vampire taking Rosalie's back. He didn't dare to look at Carlisle as his spell sped through the air and crashed against the red-eyed vampire's face. Esme's horrified gasp spoke volumes of their thoughts on this scene.

He inwardly flinched as the battle commenced; his errors were glaring, every opportunity for the enemies to turn the tide was clear as day. His right arm was too tense, his posture too straight, his movement not fluid enough. He side-stepped almost too late. A second later and the vampires would have had his head. Worst of all, he still had his tell. His left arm always twitched upwards whenever he cast an offensive spell, yet stayed still as he cast defense. The tell rendered his nonverbal skill useless. _Never give your enemy the privilege of knowing your next move._

It had become less jarring over the years. He hated it still, as he hated it the first time Ron noticed it –

—_please let him go PLEASE—_

—_Harry_—

"Harry?" Esme asked, concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Harry replied, more out of habit than anything else. He noticed Jasper staring intently at him, but Harry couldn't find it in himself at the moment. He closed his eyes, forcing blood and red hair out of his mind.

Occlumency had proven to be a great help. He let his mind be blank even with the scene laid before him. As his mind cleared, the tightness in his chest would slacken, and his heart would pump as normally as it would.

_Yet_, Harry realized with growing trepidation, _it didn't._

The numbing feeling of hopelessness didn't fade as his mind cleared, instead it _grew. _It started with his chest, constricting painfully against his ribs, then to his throat, his ears, his eyes, feeling rage and hatred burning even as his legs were losing their strength. And all of a sudden everything around him shifted; the alley turned into an open field, vampires turned into dark cloaks stained with blood, ice shards into innards and burnt meat. Screams and pleas scratched at his eardrums, shattering the inside of his head until he realized that he was the one screaming at the sight of Ron's disembodied head near his feet.

He was drowning in a sea of fire, but then ice pulled him.

Everything disappeared. There was nothing but blood ringing in his ears. The Cullen's living room returned to his vision, but it was dwarfed by a pair of golden eyes in front of his, icy dainty fingers on the sides of his face.

"Breathe," She commanded, but he couldn't understand. "_Breathe."_

Then her lips were on his, forceful and desperate. He felt himself trying to fight – a battle he was quickly losing. Her mouth forced his to open, and he felt air entered his lungs.

The ringing in his ears ceased. The pounding in his heart slowed then remained, but for entirely different reason now. Her lips remained against his, slow as it was sweet, and Harry could almost hear the sound of the ocean in the distance.

When she pulled her lips away, Harry took a sharp intake of breath. It felt almost painful. Blinking profusely, he looked around, just now realizing the horror on the faces of their audience.

* * *

_Why did you stay?_

The moment the last of her family descended into the memories, Rosalie shifted her attention to Edward. She all but screamed the question in her mind, but he flinched all the same. He looked torn. She marveled at the fact that she could still unnerve him with simple sharp words and tones.

"Someone needs to watch our backs," He pointed out with an air of feigned nonchalance.

"I know you're capable of being direct, Edward. You knew they wouldn't pass the opportunity. You knew we'd be alone. You have constant access to my mind; courtesy would be directly speaking yours."

Rosalie watched anger grew in his eyes, in the way his knuckles closed and reopened. She almost felt guilt. Almost.

"Why do you make this so hard, Rose?" He shook his head in frustration. His gaze danced between her and the floor.

At the mention of her name, Rosalie sighed. _I'm sorry,_ She allowed. _Spill it out, Edward._

"I haven't apologized," He offered, a touch awkwardly. "For leaving. For running. For all the pain I caused you. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of it, but I'm telling the truth when I say it's not intentional. In the end, I'm… grateful, that Bella and I are reunited. But the moment I left, it felt like I was losing myself, losing our family. I try to regain it every day, but you – you haven't been here. It still feels like I've lost you."

She had suspected that it was something along those lines, but to hear it uttered from Edward's reserved mouth was another thing entirely. With Edward, it had always been one-sided. Her attention, her contempt for his lover, her long and detailed rant against him in her mind which he either accepted or ignored but never replied.

Had he been unable to read her mind, she would have feigned nonchalance. But she missed this. She missed her family. She missed her brother.

"I missed you too," Edward said softly.

Rosalie twitched in annoyance. "Out of my head."

He smiled a little. It was the first positive emotion he'd shown that night, since Harry came and turned everything he knew upside down. Edward's jaw tightened as Harry emerged into her mind. Rosalie felt anger return to her head.

"I don't trust him," Edward said, looking away.

Rosalie took a few step forwards. Edward turned to her, mildly alarmed. "You don't trust me, then."

"You've seen the things he can do. What his kind can do," Edward pressed. Rosalie felt her fingers twitch, itching to bash his head. "Someone toyed with Carlisle's head. Our kind's strength lies in our senses, physique, and mind. A man who can manipulate all three cannot be trusted."

_Zafrina._

Edward paused. "Sorry?"

"Zafrina. Chelsea. Jane. Alec. Jasper," She spoke, letting her thoughts stroll right out of her mouth. "You."

Realization dawned on his face. He opened his mouth, but Rosalie continued at once, "Zafrina, Jane and Alec manipulate senses. Chelsea manipulates bonds. Jasper manipulates emotion. And you – even if you don't directly pull the strings of our brain, you know which button to push. The words to say. The secrets for which to blackmail."

"And for us, it's each talent for each man. Yours have all three."

The word _yours _referring to Harry made her stomach flutter, but both she and Edward ignored it. "Jasper, Alice and you can rip Carlisle, Esme and me apart with your gifts alone. Physically you can outsmart us, foresee and manipulate our every move. Psychologically you strip us off our identity and destroy us from within if you so wish. By every rationality, we should have feared the three of you. Nature would have demanded us to run. But instead Carlisle took you in, Esme chose to love you, and I came to trust you."

Edward stared at her, long and hard. Finally, he replied, "Do you trust him?"

"I'm not denying that he's dangerous. In fact, he's more dangerous than you know. You would do well to remember that," Rosalie smiled. "And that I trust him with my life."

She briefly wondered when was the exact moment that she started trusted him. The notion had been an unwelcome urge since the first day they met, the moment she entered his tent and agreed to stay. It grew slowly, undetected, as she convinced herself that _trust _meant giving power and power meant _danger. _But now as she looked back to their interactions, it dawned on her that even before she met him, there was always a small part of her that had always been impulsive, curious, _unafraid. _The part of her that she had always forced to bury to shield herself from pain – a kindling fire under the shadow that she built herself, until he came and set it alight.

"How do you know it's real?" Edward pressed again, apparently unwilling to let it go. "How do you know it's not his… _magic _messing with your head?"

Even the mere suggestion of it was enough to make her inside cold. She swallowed her anger. Edward watched her curiously as if he wasn't expecting that. Rosalie willed herself to listen to Harry's steady heartbeat.

"How does Alice know it's real, when Jasper can manipulate her into feeling whatever he wants her to feel? How does Bella know it's real, that it's not a silly crush or worse a biological human reaction to our enthralling predatory nature?"

Edward seemed to have no answer to that.

"Do you trust me?" She asked.

He didn't miss a beat. "Yes."

"Good," Rosalie smiled, watching alarm slowly creeping into his eyes. "Because you haven't apologized."

The first was her hands on his arm socket. The second was him flying through the third floor window, eyes on her full of disbelief as his body was helplessly succumbing to gravity, to the face of the earth with a satisfyingly loud thud. It was nothing compared to a fifty story drop, but she supposed it would do. For the time being.

He took no time to return, a resigned look on his face. Mud covered most of him and some of it had already dripped to what Rosalie noticed to be a new carpet. Rosalie winced inwardly, knowing exactly Esme was going to react. Edward seemed to agree because he gave her a look that said, _you're going to explain to her._

The moment shattered as soon as it came. Her attention was stolen by the sound she had silently been holding to – his heartbeat, all of a sudden mounting to a terrifying crescendo. He was still soaked in the memories, but his knuckles were closed tight, shivering.

She closed the distance between them and pulled him out. As he broke free, so did the others. But her vision was filled with him, with both of them on their knees, both of them staring at each other, but his gaze at her was confused, lost.

"Breathe," She demanded him. He didn't seem to understand, so without thinking she pressed her mouth against his, forcing his lips to open so she could give him air. Finally he obliged. His heart ceased its beating as seconds went by.

She didn't let go. Not for a while. His lips moving against hers was the proof that the danger had passed, so she embraced the fleeting flutter in her stomach, the tingling on her skins that he could trigger just by placing his fingers on her jawline.

When she finally released him, she was all too aware of her family's stare. She hadn't been comfortable showing how much this young man affected her already, but at the moment she was too distraught to care. She helped him up to the nearest chair, then looked up to meet the gazes of the others.

"What happened?"

She hadn't meant to channel her anger to her tone, but it seeped through. It took three of Harry's heartbeats until one of them took forward. Rosalie felt her jaw tighten. Unsurprising, yet it boiled her blood all the same.

"That was my doing," Jasper admitted. He sounded uncharacteristically meek, reluctant. "I didn't – I didn't know that would be his reaction. Back at the battle in Seattle, he reacted oddly and strongly to Alice. For a split second, he felt… _bloodthirsty, sorrowful, furious. _Something that he shouldn't have felt, judging by his reaction.I needed to know more, so when he showed the battle in his memory, and he felt something similar, I – I intensified it. Suddenly our battle was replaced by another. By war. War he fought in. There was the head of somebody important to him on his feet."

His voice had turned soft. Because he might not understand magic, but he understood wars. All too well. Rosalie would have hugged him then, but her cold seething anger froze her muscles in place.

"I'm sorry, Rose."

The sincerity in his voice only made her snap – she lunged at him, but a forceful grip locked her wrist. Harry looked up at her with exhausted eyes, shaking his head.

Reluctantly removing her glare from Jasper, she took Harry's fingers from her wrist and entangle them with hers instead. She led him carefully, fearing he might break. He walked straight, his footsteps sure, looking every bit as powerful as the day they met save for the haunted look in his eyes.

She led him upstairs to her room, sparing no one else a glance.

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**Don't hesitate to rant - regarding the chapter or the lateness of it. I deserve it anyway... And I am aware this isn't how pensieve normally works, but given the circumstances, who can prove otherwise?**

**And I'm also ashamed to say that I've lost track of the reviews to which I've replied... So if I miss any of your reviews, I'm really sorry. Know that I immensely appreciate your support. Or PM me if you're up for chat, about the story or anything really.**

**Have a good day, everyone!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Subtact - Burden (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome. Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**

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**Chapter 10 will be up on Jan 27th 7 pm EST.**


	10. Old Demons and New

**Something unexpectedly happened, so I'm late a few hours... but it's nothing compared to months, right *laughs nervously - _again_*. Anyway, here it is.**

**Sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing _PhoenixFanatic999!**

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_"Sold, I'm ever_

_Open ears and open eyes_

_Wake up to your starboard bride_

_Who goes in and then stays inside_

_Oh the demons come, they can subside"_

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**#10**

**Old Demons and New**

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Reading _Who Am I? _by Gilderoy Lockhart was similar to swallowing human food for pretenses; it prompted bile to rise in her throat. His narcissism was unfortunately not lost in the iteration, although there was a real chance that the five hundred-page book was ghostwritten by a blind admirer (the better scenario would be a journalist who knew how to make money off his dying fan base, but who knew?). It was rather fascinating, she begrudgingly admitted, that his thought process, while skewed, was very much intact. She had spent the last two hours translating the pattern of his thoughts into twelve pages (that she did not need, due to her eidetic memory, but she liked the sound of pen scribbling against paper). It was her last attempt in rummaging Harry's collections, in hope of finding anything remotely linked to the effects of memory charm.

Harry shifted at her side. Rosalie sighed, deciding to give up on the book she'd been obsessing over, and put it on her night stand softly as to not wake him up. She ran her fingers through his dark locks, and marveled at how soft they felt despite the mess they seemed to be. His eyes fluttered in depths of his dream. She loved seeing him like this, youthful, peaceful and free. A contrast to his shivering form last night; the one that she had practically dragged to her bed, the one whose eyes tiredly conveyed _I'm sorry _to which she simply said _don't apologize, never apologize for it._

The last time he slept had been in the tent four nights ago. _Nightmares, _he had explained. He refused to take a sleeping potion, saying that he had been addicted before and the effect was nearly lost on him anyway. He hadn't seemed weary, appearing like his usual quiet yet confident self, so she hadn't bugged him about it. Since the first time they met she knew that he was different; that he was human but not quite so, that he was wizard but so much more, and then one day he told her of his immortality and she knew he was one of a kind. That particular secret had put her mind at ease regarding his more human needs. At the present, however, she wondered that perhaps if she'd forced him to sleep every time, he wouldn't have lost it last night.

Fury bubbled up in her chest again at the memory. She had wanted to tear a number of Jasper's body parts off the moment Harry fell into slumber with the help of sleeping potion, but she didn't want to risk waking him. So she slammed the door in Jasper's face – he had followed them upstairs, muttering _Rose, look, I'm sorry _– and made sure Harry actually slept instead.

She didn't want to be a creep like Edward, so she directed her attention to research. It had possessed her; the possibility of erasing her past had hooked her the moment the idea presented itself. That she could start anew. That she could start a life unchained by her past, ignorant of the vile touches on her skin, unburdened by the blood she had spilled.

She knew he could see it then; the hope that had shone in her eyes, when they all learned that Carlisle's memory had been stolen. She also knew he didn't approve, for reasons he hadn't said but she already suspected.

Her train of thought was stopped by the stirring on her left, followed by a displeased groan. Sunlight had found its way to his eyes. Rosalie smirked in amusement. She stared at him until his eyes fully opened, until they moved to groggily look back at her.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Were you watching me sleep?"

Rosalie rolled her golden eyes. "Because there is nothing as interesting as watching you sleep the whole night, I'm sure."

That earned her a grin. "What were you doing, then?"

More than a little alarmed at the fact that she was _nervous, _Rosalie mustered nonchalance as she answered, "Research."

He said nothing in a few seconds. She wondered if he planned to let her be with her quest for erasability, hope that she fails, and pretend to be unaware of it all. But then he slightly rose, resting on both of his elbows. She was leaning against the headboard and she could catch a glimpse of the triangle etched on his back. There was a tiny difference, she noted. The line that divided the triangle hadn't been straight anymore; there was several dots across, starting from a thick, curved segment. She absently thought that it looked like his wand.

The secret he wasn't ready to divulge.

"Found anything?" He asked, groaning as he sat and pressed his back to the headboard. He was staring emptily at the wall, away from her.

"Nothing useful," She admitted.

Another silence.

"I didn't know," Harry offered hesitantly. "That there was a way. I wasn't lying."

She turned to him, taken off guard. She knew that he wasn't. She took in the discomfort in his expression, and felt hers softened. "I know."

But he wasn't finished. She realized then that his discomfort stemmed from what he was going to say next. "But you saw how it affects Carlisle. It stole something from him."

"Carlisle was robbed of his old friend, magic, and a magnificent world unlike anything he had ever seen," She pointed out. "_I_ will be rid of my demons."

Her conviction echoed in the room, a display of the strength of her vow. There would be a way. She would do everything to gain her freedom, regain her innocence. Harry moved away from the headboard, making a mess of the sheets as he faced her fully. She could see the internal debate in his eyes, as he struggled for words to say. She beat him to it to ask the one question that mattered, "Will you think less of me?"

He laughed. Not mocking, but not in amusement either. It was almost like a reflex, as if what she had asked was so ridiculous that the answer didn't require a thought, only a noise of surprise. His eyes softened as he smiled, "Never."

She had to kiss him then. When their lips met, she wondered how on earth she managed to not kiss him as soon as he awoke. It started slow, familiar, but then his hands were on her waist, her jawline, her hair, and her whole body tingled. It wasn't the first time he made her feel this way; he had always had that effect on her with his gaze alone, a small pull of the corner of his lips – but this was different. This was curiosity, as her hands explored his chest, his shoulder, his messy locks. This was fire deep in her core, alight in response to his touch. This was fear – she realized, as his hands traveled below. She froze.

He stopped as soon as she did. Their bodies are still connected, her on his lap, mouths an inch apart. She felt shame lighting up her face. He'd been nothing but patient, and yet here she was, still as a statue. This wouldn't be the first time since the night her virtue was stolen. But her rendezvous with Edward happened once, out of desperation, out of the need to be _wanted _after decades without comfort. She couldn't care less what he thought of her that night; she just wanted to _feel._

This boy-wonder – with captivating green eyes and kind smile – made her feel so many things at once, and she couldn't bear the thought that he might not feel the same way. To the same extent. She couldn't let him touch her, let herself touch him, while her mind was filled with unwanted touches of other men. He didn't deserve that.

And she didn't deserve him. But she was too selfish to even entertain the idea.

His kiss brought her out of her reverie. Slow, sweet, undemanding. She could feel him smiling into it and she found herself doing the same. When he let go, he looked at her without contempt, judgement, or even pity – but silent _understanding. _He kissed her knuckles, an easy grin on his lips, as he slid off the bed and made his way into her bathroom. She imagined following him inside, watching his eyes widen in surprise. She smiled to herself. _Perhaps one day._

Harry emerged from the shower in a loose shirt and faded trousers, looking like he always did in Sunday mornings. Rosalie could already hear Alice's whines. She hid her smile, wanting Harry to have first-hand experience with Alice's aggressive fashion critiques. She kissed him before dragging him downstairs, and smirked at the sound of his stomach growling.

Esme had taken it upon herself to cook breakfast and outdone it; their ever-empty dinner table was filled with platters of full breakfast, including freshly served bacon, sausages, eggs, beans and mashed potatoes, with a bowl of fruits and two pots of both coffee and tea on the far edge. In short, it was a breakfast for eight, not one. Rosalie felt Jasper's eyes on her as he sliced apples onto another plate, apparently having been helping Esme, clearly as a peace offering.

Harry seemed baffled. "_I_… This is too kind—"

"Nonsense," Esme waved him off, guiding Harry to his seat.

Harry sat slowly, hesitance in his features as he managed, "Thank you."

"Of course, Harry," Esme beamed. Rosalie noticed that it was the first time any of them had used his name_, _addressing him solely as a person and not as either threat or wonder. Harry seemed to realize it too, as his smile widened, digging into eggs and bacons.

The house was rather empty without Carlisle and Edward (which had taken a habit of spending every waking moment with Bella), but it was nothing but lively. Rosalie hadn't ever thought Harry to be _shy, _but she hadn't expected him to carry light conversation with her family with ease. She'd also half expected Alice to pummel him with rapid fire questions, but it was Esme that first asked his background. He gave them no information that she didn't know, but the way he spoke about himself made it feel like she was hearing it for the first time.

"This is brilliant, Esme," Harry said, finally able to refrain from calling her _Mrs. Cullen. _"The crisp is perfect. I've never managed to make it like quite this."

How that sentence didn't come off as plain flattery, she didn't know. Esme perked up, "Oh, do you cook?"

"Just simple dishes," He replied modestly. "Bacons are easy and tasty; they've become a regular over the years."

Alice, who was watching Harry eat closely, edged even closer. "Do you use magic to cook? Prepare the ingredients, chop them, wash them?"

"Most wizarding folks use magic for everything. For me, well, I find doing mundane things the normal way rather relaxing."

Rosalie sent him an annoyed glance, as he'd divulged that particular piece of information so easily when it took her weeks. Harry grinned into his tea. "Or perhaps it's the familiarity. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember."

There was adoration in Esme's gaze. "Helping in the kitchen since you were little? Your parents must be very proud, Harry."

Rosalie expected him to flinch at the comment, or at least show some degree of derision. Instead his face turned into a careful mask, remaining genial; the only thing that betrayed him was the slight movement of his knuckles. Watching him, she felt both pride and anger; _prid_e for his perfect mask, not unlike her own in similar situation – this was one of those times when she realized that despite his warmth and her coldness, they weren't all that different – and _fury _for the muggles she would have killed torturously had she had her way.

She vividly remembered the moment she found out. It slipped into one of their conversations, when Harry told her about the time he'd gotten a Weasley jumper at Christmas, and Rosalie asked who gave him the 50-pence piece. He'd offered offhanded comments at first, but Rosalie refused to let it go. Finally, meekly, as if the monstrous treatment he had received was his fault, he told her the truth.

The Dursleys didn't give him a single scar, no permanent remembrance of them on his skin. But the damage they had inflicted was there in his silent demeanor, in the way he looked at her family reunion oddly, _longingly, _in the way he didn't really believe that he was special, one of a kind, and least of all _not a freak._

She had wanted to hunt them down. She had wanted them to kneel, apologize to the child in him that they mistreated and then kill them afterwards. She would have, had Harry not told her that Vernon and Petunia had died in a car crash – how _ironic – _and Dudley ended up having a magical child.

None of this leaked through either of Harry's mask or hers. But Jasper, sitting at the far end of the table, looked at both of them in apprehension, and Esme caught it all. Her face twisted into worry. "What is it?"

"Nothing, it's nothing of importance, really," Harry smiled again, sipping his tea.

Esme wasn't swayed. Her frown grew, taking Harry's left hand into hers. "Tell me? Please?"

Harry looked at her in surprise, apparently not used to people caring enough to press him, or bold enough to ask him outright. He took another sip. "My parents died when I was a year old. I grew up with my mother's sister and her family."

Esme's eyes widened, and then softened. She squeezed Harry's hand. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's a long time ago. I've accepted it, really."

Consternation grew in Esme's expression. "There's more, though, isn't it?"

Rosalie raised her eyebrows in surprise; Esme hadn't been this perceptive, this urgent. Yet there she was, her hands enveloping Harry's, looking at him as if she knew the existence of Harry's mask and wanted to break it, wanted him to let her in.

Harry looked at Esme for a while before finally answering, "My – er – _relatives _weren't exactly… _fond_ of me."

"_Oh," _Esme whispered, and Rosalie stood where she was as she watched something in Esme _broke _hearing it. The woman had always been too kind for her own good, too perfect a mother. But at the moment Rosalie knew that it wasn't just maternal feelings surfacing, but the idea that such a polite, well-mannered boy grew up without love while all she had wanted was to love her unborn son.

Esme had always seen Jasper and Edward as her sons – despite their age difference, but she and Harry had the same emptiness that could have been be filled with the other. And of all of them, Esme was the one with the least restraint in expressing her affections. With tears in her eyes, she stood from her seat and pulled Harry into a tight hug.

Harry, one hand still holding his cup of tea, looked flabbergasted. His pose was almost mannequin-like for a moment, until slowly he sunk into it and circled his one free hand around Esme's back.

The moment was fleeting, as Alice apparently decided that she had been patient enough and started dragging Harry outside, demanding for a chance to fly. On his way out, he faltered at the sight of the hollow window frame that she'd shattered a night ago, and waved his wand towards it as an afterthought. He left to fetch his broom and headed outside, leaving the others stunned watching shards of glass floating, as if alive, repairing itself.

"Harry Potter," She heard Alice said in awe, once the two were outside. "You won't be rid of us for a really, _really _long time."

Alice then proceeded to rain the windows with countless rocks, giggling all the while, Esme too stupefied to protest. And then Harry laughed. At once he repaired what the pixie had broken, only for her to break another a second later. She had heard him laugh countless times by now, but it never quite sounded like _that; _never so easy and innocent, as if he was relieving the childhood he had never gotten.

She found herself laughing along. Jasper turned to her, astonished, but she pointedly ignored her brother, even as he started chuckling too.

It hadn't ever felt this way. Her home. It hadn't ever felt so open, so carefree, as though they were not monsters they were shaped to be. As if they were truly a family, bounded by blood and had been this way for decades, centuries, thousands of years.

All because he was now here. With rebellious black hair and bright, kind eyes that smiled as he did, as if he had no demons of his own. With his arrival, he had brought the piece of her that had been lost.

Vehemently, she swore that she would let nothing – _nothing _take this away from her.

* * *

It hadn't been too long since he last visited the castle he once called home, but the bleak scenery hit him as hard as the frost bit his skin. The corridors were dark and empty, distant hissing of Mrs. Norris at the back (or perhaps it was just old fear creeping to his conscience), oddly in harmony with constant sound of water leaking from pipes. He had lost count of the times he had snuck around in the middle of the night, but he remembered that the corridors felt eerie, with shadows jumping around and lurking behind his back. He'd always thought of Hogwarts not as a mere building, not as a mere _thing_. It had something deep inside it not many understood, or even cared to think about, but there was _something _there, and Harry was sure of it with all of his bones. There was never confirmation: only a distinct feeling and the way the professors talked about this castle like there was a secret they never revealed. Until now.

He felt something in him stirred the moment he stepped inside. He could feel the castle rejoicing at his presence, knowing that the man that just entered was born from the boy who thought this place as his only home.

It was with this thought in mind that he entered the Headmistress' Office, with a smile that he didn't have to fake. His greeting rolled smoothly on his tongue, "Headmistress."

His old professor sighed, seemingly restraining from rolling her eyes. "_Minerva, _Harry. Professor, if you must."

"Of course," He said, stifling a smile. He always liked riling her up with propriety; it reminded him of the old times.

"I take it this is not a social visit?"

"No," Harry said apologetically. "I'm afraid not. I'm here to see Dumbledore. There's something I need to speak to him about. Privately."

The Headmistress stared at him with hard eyes. "The last time I allowed such a thing, you broke most of my possessions."

"Nothing that can't be fixed by a simple _reparo, _I'm sure."

McGonagall curled her lips in distaste. "The pandemonium between the late headmasters couldn't."

Despite her words and apparent unhappiness, McGonagall waved her wand. Dumbledore's portrait emerged from the wall, much like the way Grimmauld Place Number 12 did from the surfaces of its neighbors, and Harry had to wonder just how many had sought the deceased headmaster to have warranted this level of security measure. Then again, perhaps it was only him. McGonagall had always had gone overboard in reacting to Harry's misconducts, after all.

He almost hadn't noticed her retreat to her chambers, as his eyes quickly found Dumbledore's twinkling blue, tinted with surprise and curiosity. He had thought the words to say to him over and over on the way here until it became a lengthy monologue, but all of it died in his lips as the memory of Carlisle's anguish resurfaced.

"Did you lie to me?"

Dumbledore froze in his frame, and Harry couldn't decide if it was out of fear or shock.

"About Carlisle," Harry clarified, tone biting. "Was he really your friend?"

This wouldn't have been the greatest trick Albus Dumbledore had ever pulled. His dead mentor had manipulated him since he entered the castle, after all, milking all of his potential until the well was dry and thoroughly orchestrated his death. Yet somehow this felt more _personal_. It wasn't just Harry's plan that he had tainted, but his future, even after he had been promised that all of it was done, over, and he was finally free from anyone's grasp.

When Dumbledore had no answer, Harry continued, "He has no memory of you. Or of magic at all. But his senses remember. He has been exposed to magic before, but I'm not sure if he truly was your '_old friend'_. So now I repeat my question: _did you lie to me?"_

Carefully, as though Harry had the ability to rip him out of the frame, Dumbledore answered the truth that Harry had been dreading.

"No."

Harry slumped into the Headmistress' chair, ignoring the outraged cries of _how dare you _and a chorus of _merlin himself had less audacity! _and stared straight into Dumbledore's baffled blue eyes.

"I did not lie. Carlisle was my friend. We met when I was still a young man, when I was traveling with Gellert Grindelwald and starting to have doubts of his cause," He said quietly, but not without conviction. "My lies are countless, but this is not one of them. I swear to you, Harry."

The lack of _my boy _caused him to relax a little, but Harry kept his gaze. He had believed Dumbledore the first time because he couldn't think of a reason for it. The old man was ruthless with his cause – the _Greater Good – _but above all, he was a rationalist. He was cold with his decisions, but he didn't thrive on chaos and pain either. He wouldn't inflict misfortune upon his once-pawn out of mere spite.

Harry asked flatly, "Then what do you propose happened? His memory is rewritten? He's a vampire. He has eidetic memory. Even a human can have flashbacks and leftovers of what has been rewritten. It should be impossible to rewrite a vampire's mind. Too much information – one detail is bound to trigger another."

The man in the portrait looked older than he already was.

"I – I don't know."

Harry clenched his teeth as he stood. "Then you're useless."

He felt brutal pleasure in seeing his old mentor's face contorted in pain. To be a pawn of no use was a severe blow to the man that used to play the game. This was the furthest it could get from one of Dumbledore's games, but Harry was the player anyway.

Absently he wondered what made him this cruel to the man. Once, he had been the grandfather figure Harry never had. _All lies, _he thought bitterly. His deceits and manipulations were done in the name of the greater good and all it had done to him was to inflict more and more pain.

But Dumbledore did tell the truth. He had guided Harry to hell, but then when it was over he permitted Harry the key to leave. And what followed was the chain of events that made him feel like someone else altogether, someone he had never been permitted of being. _Just Harry._

It was with that in mind that Harry stopped when Dumbledore called for him. He turned, his hand gripping golden door knob with strength that could break it.

"Tell me what happened," Dumbledore demanded, as if he had any right. Harry bristled. "Something changed. There's – there's an air about you now that reminds me of only one other person."

Harry answered Dumbledore's question with his own. "Who?"

"Gellert."

For a while, there was nothing but thick silence, and his own controlled breathing. He felt his mask slip into place.

"Grindelwald," Harry whispered. _Who else?_

Harry whirled on the spot, lashing on the portrait, "He knew, didn't he? He knew of your relation to Carlisle. He didn't approve. Vampires were _beneath _the two of you. Beneath him. But you knew Carlisle's kindness, and you began to see what kind of man Grindelwald really was."

The reply died on the old man's mouth, but it was an answer all the same.

"Tell me," Harry said softly. "Did Gellert Grindelwald acquire all the three Hallows after all?"

The question brought Dumbledore out of his shock. "What – _Never. _Not while I was alive. He had been close, _so close, _but never – "

"Maybe he didn't," Harry nodded. Dumbledore stared. "Or maybe he did without your knowledge."

"My boy, are you – "

"Good night, professor."

He had gained all he needed from his deceased mentor. His answers now lied elsewhere, deep in his consciousness, locked and buried.

* * *

"_A master comes with a question. How can a servant deny him the answer?"_

Death's voice crawled against his skin like thousands of spiders, but it was still more pleasant than the sharp edge of scythe on his neck. Harry stared down at the offending blade. The ethereal weapon had shed so much of his blood, and each time he had emerged _alive; _it had ceased to frighten him.

What frightened him was the answer. It was within his grasp, but it felt like a grain of sand slipping through his fingers. Death was peering at him with unforgiving blue eyes, almost _daring _Harry to ask what Death already knew.

Grindelwald's name felt wrong as it rolled off his tongue, but a pair of icy eyes flashed.

The reply was simple, unconcerned. "_The affairs between a master and his servant remains between the two."_

The blade on his neck twisted slowly, drawing blood. Harry let Death's words flow out of his mouth, not bothering to hide mockery in his voice, "How could a servant deny his master an answer?"

Death cackled; its noise was screeching and ugly, twisted in its own amusement and mockery. _Oh, sweet, naïve child, _it meant. Death stared at him. Malice danced in its gaze, but by then cold rage had danced in his own. There was no submission in the way Death regarded him; only contempt and impatience, like a butler treating a petulant child of his true master's.

As soon as he fell deep into his head, he was soon flung back to earth, gasping into the scent of rain and earth.

* * *

Rage still overwhelmed him by the time he reached Forks, undeterred by the chill of the storm and the swaying of dark towering trees around him. Morbidly, the scene reminded him of death. He seethed as he made his way through the storm – even with Impervius Charm, not much could be done with mud that found its way into his shoes.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wrap his mind around it. He couldn't understand it – the devil that lurked deep in his subconscious, a fairytale and nightmare manifested into one being. It was pulling its strings directly from within him; outbursts of emotions that weren't his own, power that he hadn't ever dreamed of having, selected information both forced on and withheld from him.

Absently he wondered if his anger didn't simply stem from being so unceremoniously banished, but from the fact that he had no control, once again on the strings rather than be the one to pull it.

As the Cullens' house came into view, Harry forced his breathing to normal. He had opted to apparate to the appropriate distance from their home, not wanting to disrupt into their routines without warning. It would be pointless if he came inside seething and breaking every piece of electronics in their possession.

It was near midnight. It was no secret that vampires did not require sleep, but Harry had figured that much like humans, they preferred solitude and privacy at late hours. So he had surmised to enter the room with his clothes and shoes dry, mutter few greetings to one or two Cullens as he passed. As such he was caught off guard, when not one, or even two, but _all _the Cullens were there in the living room, each absorbed in their own activities, but in each other's presence all the same.

Esme's head peeked from the kitchen. For someone who vomited after swallowing food, she bothered an outrageous amount of time preparing it. The caramel-haired woman flashed him an easy smile, as if he had walked through this door a hundred times and she'd always been there to greet him.

"Welcome home, Harry."

The others offered him their own greetings. Carlisle, in the task of chopping carrots for Esme, waved him the knife – a gesture that should have been alarming if done by anyone but him. Alice looked up from her game of chess against Edward; she swished her hand vigorously as though they were a river apart not twenty feet, while the latter offered him a simple raise of eyebrows. Jasper sat on a sofa near them, glancing at Alice with no small amount of frustration, probably seeking her attention. Harry returned their gestures with a smile of his own, small and brief but real enough. His mind was still transfixed on Esme's plain greetings – one that shouldn't have affected him so much yet it did, and he had no way of evading it.

_Home._

This place was the furthest image from his old home, with unnerving transparency that allowed so much green inside in contrary to the secure, warm hearth of both Hogwarts and his old apartment. In addition, the sheer number of _strangers _occupying the room would have been enough for Harry to retreat to his own space.

But then she descended the stairs, looking every bit like the princess he imagined in the bedtime stories he stole from Dudley's room long ago. But he knew the truth – she was far from the sweet, innocent damsel in distress. She was as sharp as steel, as dangerous as poison, as passionate as wildfire. All of that he knew the first time they met, but the soft, peaceful expression on her porcelain face was new. He knew what she was thinking. She was home.

For the time being, if Harry disregarded every rational thought and let his heart decided, home was where she was.

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**Curiously, I have... nothing to say on post-chapter author's note. Oh, well, anything you want to ask - ask!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]**

Bon Iver - Calgary (Listen to it. Seriously)

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome. Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


	11. Reveries

***laughs nervously* Okay, so... This chapter is really hard to write. Harry/Rosalie interactions come naturally to me but not Harry &amp; the Cullens. Confusion led to taking a break, which led to other distractions, which transformed into other obsession... In short, I lost the story for a while. I'm sure everyone's tired of hearing this, but I'm really, _really _sorry for the ridiculously late update.**

**Sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the _amazing _PhoenixFanatic999!**

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_"I want to see it all at the end with my convictions_

_For now I'll contemplate what it is to grow in vision_

_I want to feel alive,_

_I want to feel alive"_

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**#11**

**Reveries**

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"This feels…"

Harry watched the older man patiently, scrutinizing the details of his gesture. Carlisle's posture was as tense as three nights before. His golden eyes weren't as wide, as shock seemed to have faded and turned into wary and confusion, but they still held the calm wisdom that Rosalie once described. Harry would have stopped and put out the fire on his fingertips then, if not for the determination dancing in his eyes.

He waited for Carlisle to finish his sentence, but the latter trailed off completely, transfixed at the fire that had just turned golden.

"It won't burn," Harry promised. At Carlisle's hesitant nod, Harry let the flame leave him and crept its way to Carlisle's marble skin instead. Carlisle winced, apparently expecting pain anyway, then instantly relaxed when he realized that Harry was telling the truth.

Carlisle placed an awfully great deal of trust in him, Harry thought. He didn't know what to think about it, other than while it smoothened their experimentation process, it was incredibly unwise. What would the vampire have done had the flame had been real? He would have been trapped in the heat, completely at Harry's mercy.

He hadn't been surprised when Carlisle asked Harry to speak privately in his study. Neither were the rest of them, Harry noticed, even though they disrupted none of their activities. Esme sent him a smile that a mother would give to a caretaker of her child in kindergartens, which Harry returned with an unsure nod. Harry couldn't help but felt that while this pretense of privacy was well-meaning, it was also entirely pointless. His eyes caught Rosalie's as he thought of this, and immediately he felt a turn in his stomach, knowing exactly that she wanted to follow.

Carlisle's study wasn't what he expected from a man with three hundred years of experience. He had expected dusty bookshelves and worn out books in coincidental imitation of Hogwarts, but what welcomed him was steel, renewed paperbacks and the scent of hospital. There were two velvet armchairs facing a large window. Carlisle sat on one, even though he did not need to, and Harry took the other. Their seating was more informal than facing one another on Carlisle's desk, but Harry felt like he was in Headmaster's office all the same, with Carlisle's twinkling golden eyes that were innocent of the effect it had on Harry.

He watched Carlisle _fidget_, struggling to release his questions. Harry was pleased that the man wasted no time in meaningless banter. The first thing Carlisle asked was to see Dumbledore with his own eyes.

"Do you recognize him?" Harry asked, when the two of them had drowned into the depth of his pensieve.

Carlisle's eyes flashed with disappointment before he closed them. "No."

It was clear that Carlisle wanted to see nothing more, so Harry simply nodded and took them back into reality. He hadn't liked the idea of inviting another of the Cullens into pensieve after what had transpired three nights ago. Harry kept his mask as he felt a surge of anger at the memory. No attempt on his well-being had ever felt so personal; he could not let this one go, no matter the love Rosalie harbored for her golden-haired brother. Although he doubted that she would deny him the pleasure of retaliation, as she seemed to desire it more than he did.

He redirected his mind onto the more important matters. Carlisle's progress was vital not only for the sanity of the patriarch, but also as a method of research on vampiric memory loss. Rosalie hadn't bothered to hide her wish – even went as far as to boldly claim it – and Harry couldn't help but to feel growing dread as he took steps closer to the truth. If it was revealed that erasing her memory was possible, what would he do? He had been able to stand idly as she dedicated her time to seek the answer, but would he be able to do it to her, for her? Would he be able to cast the spell himself to clean the slate of her mind, possibly altering her identity – or worse, _break it – _in the process?

Harry inwardly cursed himself as Carlisle took a sharp intake of breath, the fire on the icy skin growing hot. His mind often wandered too far, these days. Harry gave the man an apologetic look, wincing as he turned the flame blue, "I'm sorry. I lost track of thought."

Carlisle didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he appeared intrigued. He brought the flame closer to his inspection, studying the flickering dead heat with great interest.

"Fascinating," The vampire breathed. "Bizarre – no offense intended, of course – but… _familiar."_

Harry peered at his reaction. "You recognize this, then?"

"I can't remember it, but I _know _I have seen it."

It was certainly a progress, but Harry couldn't help but to wish to see more. Reluctantly, he offered Carlisle something he hadn't thought he would, not after what had happened.

"There's another way, actually," Harry started. Carlisle perked up, and Harry knew already that the man wouldn't object. "I can use a spell. To get inside your head."

To Carlisle's credit, he didn't even appear fazed. "The way Edward does?"

Harry paused. "Does Edward read memories beyond the present and into the past?"

The silence was his answer; not only in the room, but in the house, as the others seemed to stop whatever they were doing. Carlisle's jaw fell. He was staring at Harry with no small amount of astonishment. Harry shifted, uncomfortable and a tad impatient. "Well?"

"No," Carlisle answered, once he had found his voice. He averted his gaze to look past the window, past the horizon. "One of my old friends can see everything that has passed one's mind. Is it that way for you as well?"

Thunder struck at the distance. The scream of death deafened his ears, but Harry locked his tongue and dug his fingernails to his knuckles, refusing to channel it outward.

Harry waited. The door was undisturbed, even though he half-expected either Jasper or Edward to barge inside. There was no doubt they caught his little turmoil a mere second ago. Why would they restrain now, if they had no inclination to do so before?

Rosalie's look of fury slipped into his mind. Harry felt a spark of pride in his chest as he smiled, turning his attention back to Carlisle. "No, nothing that grand, I'm afraid. It's all visual fragments scattered and jumbled. The most significant ones are usually the most accessible. If you're willing to try, then we won't be playing around in the shallows. We'll have to dive and search for traces. Magical imprints. Well, I'm speaking theoretically, of course. Nothing guarantees we'll find anything."

Carlisle looked solemn, but determined.

"However," Harry continued. "While I'm confident to conduct the process, peeking into another's mind is an intricate piece of magic. It wouldn't do to be… _distracted."_

Carlisle winced. The jab was not intended at him, but Harry couldn't deny that he was glad to see that he wasn't the only one affected.

The three-century old doctor apologized for what seemed to be the hundredth time. And each time, it felt odd. There was something different in the way Carlisle regarded him. All his life he had dealt with adults that treated him like a child that he wasn't any longer—the child that he no longer could be. Sirius was an exception, but his presence was fleeting. All his life, he was used with people older than himself to think their experience was above his own.

Carlisle talked to him as if no generational gap existed between them. He had the wisdom of an ancient, but none of the condescension. It was refreshing. He couldn't help but wonder if everything was different, if he had met him alone the way he did Rosalie, if Carlisle had remembered Dumbledore…

Yet here they were. Neither bore ill intents, but wary all the same.

"Ready?" Harry asked, though had he been in Carlisle's position, he knew he wouldn't be.

Carlisle inhaled shakily for air he didn't need and nodded.

Harry took a deep breath of his own. The particular spell had never been his favorite, and yet he found himself using it again and again.

Carlisle's memories are kaleidoscopic blur of everything at once. One human's lifetime of memories was streaming river, but Carlisle's were crushing force of the ocean. Three centuries worth of experiences invaded his mind without warning, and Harry had to grip the chair behind him as he fell back, knocked out of the spell and into the present.

"I'm sorry," He rasped, looking at Carlisle who seemed as disheveled as himself. "I – I didn't expect that. The memories, they're too much."

"I'm sorry," Carlisle mirrored. He looked down, the expression on his face both terrified and intrigued. "We don't have to do it again. I'm sure we'll find another way."

Harry shook his head, and pointed the wand back to the space between Carlisle's wide eyes. They were burning with thirst for answers, and Harry knew Carlisle saw the same in his.

This time, the torrent of history was expected; it did not swallow him whole. He stayed still amongst the hurricane of Carlisle's memories, attempting to slow the blurring colors surrounding him with the will of mind. He began to see more than abstractions of thoughts, then – Esme's smiling face, blood on surgery table, burning stakes…

It was no use. There was no possible way for him to analyze even a part of the chaos, let alone find voids and missing links. He pulled himself out, gasping for air. In front of him Carlisle looked confused and unsure, but it was nothing compared to moments ago. He was looking at Harry now; before Harry could say anything, Carlisle had beaten him to it. "It's impossible, isn't it?"

"This way, yes," Harry admitted. "But this is only one method among others."

Carlisle looked at him as if he didn't want to believe him. "Other methods?"

Harry launched into a lengthy explanation of the intricate workings of human mind and how they might apply to vampires, and while Carlisle seemed lost a few times, he appeared to understand the general gist. Once Carlisle had no questions left (the man had the curiosity of a child and the critical mind of a theoretician, to say it was tedious was an understatement), Harry instructed him to retrace the last three centuries of his vampire life, to write each day as he remembered it. Once finished, the lost fragments of his past could be linked to the context of time and place. Carlisle brightened at the idea; he didn't seem to be uncomfortable receiving Harry's help, but to dig his own past seemed to be a fascinating goal to him.

The subject of Carlisle's mind gave them abundance to discuss and thus there was no room for delicate small-talks between strangers. The fact that Carlisle was the head of the family of Rosalie's had slipped his mind entirely. Now that the conversation of Carlisle's lost memories was closed, Harry was unsure if he should soon leave the room and find Rosalie instead. Carlisle didn't seem to notice, lost in his own head.

When Harry stood, Carlisle perked up, as though surprised at himself, and then said, "I'm sorry. I was thinking about the time I was in Europe, trying to remember any particular oddities…"

"No, it's alright. Best if you start right away. Three hundred years is a lot to write."

Carlisle chuckled, and Harry found himself smiling. Harry nodded, reaching for the door, when Carlisle asked, "What is he like? Albus Dumbledore? Can you tell me?"

Truthfully, he didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think of Albus Dumbledore.

"He was a... Leader. He was brilliant, a genius, by all rights he should have been sorted into Ravenclaw—the house of the smart ones—but he became a Gryffindor instead. He could have become the Minister, if he wanted it, but he wanted to be at Hogwarts. He had an incredibly odd sense of humor, and questionable preference of lemon drops…"

He trailed off, when he saw the look on Carlisle's face.

"Was?" Carlisle asked softly.

He swallowed. How did he miss that particular bit of information? Had he really not mentioned the death of the man significant enough for Carlisle to have part of his history erased?

"Was," was all Harry felt he could say. Then, he added. "I'm sorry."

Carlisle looked down, and Harry wondered if the vampire could feel grief for someone he didn't remember. For a while, neither of them spoke. Eventually Carlisle nodded. "It's alright. Thank you for telling me."

He took the cue to leave, but stopped, realizing that he hadn't told the things that mattered.

"Albus was a great man. A _good _man. Sometimes he had rationale ahead of his morals, but all he did, he did it for the good of the world," Harry said. "And he thought very highly of you."

He had wanted to lie, to cover the wrongdoings of Albus Dumbledore with white lies to appease Carlisle's distress. The first part of his sentence was intended as such, but it didn't feel like lies. Not really. Harry remembered his last encounter with Dumbledore's portrait, his harsh words, and felt his stomach twist with guilt.

He was pulled out of his reverie by Carlisle's tearful smile. "Thank you, Harry."

For a brief second, Carlisle reminded him of Remus Lupin. He felt like he was thirteen again, dismissed after a draining session of battling faux-dementors.

"Think nothing of it," Harry said, meaning it.

When the night arrived, Esme insisted on having a family dinner. She had always smiled at him when they interacted, but Harry found her glancing at him with unmasked gratitude when she thought he wasn't looking. It wasn't unwelcome, but he did feel uncomfortable. He diverted her attentions by helping her prepare dinner (which was mostly for himself, he had wanted to ask if this was really necessary but couldn't bear to ruin the woman's excitement) and actively asking what he should do with the ingredients even if he already knew.

The conversations at dinner didn't revolve around him, thankfully, but Harry was initially horrified to find that Esme planned an actual dinner event, where everyone was seated at dinner table full of food that only he would eat. What was he supposed to do – eat while the rest talk? With dinner ending only when the dining ended, the burden of the event was suddenly on him. Rosalie noticed, and of course, she seemed entirely too amused. He glared at her, then suggested them to drink while he ate.

There were odd looks, and then a chorus of good-natured chuckles.

"It's not something we do on dinner table," Carlisle told him, his growing smile suggested it was exactly what he was imagining.

Esme added, "It's rather messy. Jasper and Edward could barely press against the table without breaking it."

Jasper looked a bit put off, but Edward seemed more amused than anything.

Harry swallowed a good chunk of his steak before he continued, "No, I mean – in glasses. Drink them like wine, you know."

Beside him, Rosalie took an empty glass from the center of the table.

"Drinking blood puts us into a frenzy. A glass is gone in a second, and a glass is far from enough. Why not drain from the source? Unless," She drawled. "There is a way to keep it flowing."

She twirled the glass in her fingers, with a smug half-smile that he found excruciatingly endearing. He felt the mischief in her eyes mirrored in his, as he summoned the goblet he had given her that night. The object in question dashed through the air like bullet—an undoubtedly alarming gesture—but the others barely had time to react; it had arrived directly to his palm. Smirking, he poured himself a glass of wine, while the goblet poured its own contents to Rosalie's glass. Their glasses clinked, and soon red were on both of their lips.

There was silence, and then—

"Hey!" Rosalie exclaimed, as she tried to take back the cup that Alice had graciously stolen.

"So. Unfair," Alice moaned into the cup, gulping greedily. "So _good."_

The astonishment in each of their faces were soon transformed into looks of hunger. Immediately, Harry fetched for others. Six bottles, each disguised as wine, flew from Rosalie's bedroom upstairs and seated themselves on each of the Cullens. There was a beat of nothing, no response, no movement, and Harry turned worried if this was rude of him, but then each of them pulled the cork out with their nail and dawned the contents heartily.

Harry turned to Rosalie, a small part of him wondering if this was intrusive of him. But before he could say a thing, Rosalie closed the distance between them—and Harry found he liked the taste of blood on her lips.

"When did you do that?" She whispered against him.

"After the session with Carlisle, when you were gone hunting," He grinned. "I thought we all need to relax a bit."

"Trying to get us drunk, Potter? Is that how you plan to win their approval?"

He kissed her this time, not caring how they might look, how the family would react seeing their unapproachable daughter this way. He couldn't resist, not with the striking red on her lips. He loved her natural color, but red brought her lips into his attention until he could see nothing else.

It was a while later that the conversation continued. As with any other blood, the frenzy started, but with continuous exposure they were able to converse while sipping it occasionally (although Jasper took more frequent, longer sips).

And there they were, the appreciative glances. Less obvious than Esme's, but the presence was a constant itch in his fingers. He refocused the attention with well-known stories from his world, carefully diverting when it started to reach personal territory. If any of them realized, they didn't comment on it. The entire time, Rosalie had her hand intertwined with his under the table. It made him wonder if she knew, but how could she?

Once Harry's meal is finished, the others put their bottles down. Harry insisted that they kept them, but Carlisle amiably refused on the grounds that they might lose their touch with their nature should they ever become addicted. _But wouldn't that be a good thing,_ Harry couldn't help but wonder. He didn't pretend to know what it was like to be in their nature, with all its ferocity and lust for blood, but wouldn't freedom from those things be preferable rather than having to suffer from resisting them?

Rosalie hadn't hunted since Harry introduced her the alternative, at least not until earlier today when Alice insisted to hunt and reconnect as sisters. He had little history in fighting vampires, but he knew enough to know that on the battle field, Rosalie was very much in control of her vampire self.

Perhaps it was just her. She had a penchant for aggression when it came to her desires, after all. A hidden fire underneath her cold exterior.

Esme hummed beside him as she wiped the dishes he washed. Out of all the Cullens, she was the one to reach for him the most. At first he thought it was merely the way she was, caring and motherly, even toward a stranger her faux-daughter brought home. But then she became more persistent in her affection; softly mussing his hair in passing, reminding him to eat three times a day, occasionally bringing him tea and biscuits (earl grey with steamed milk, just _how _did she know?) and calling him by his name more often than anyone else.

In short, she showered him with attention to which he didn't know how to react.

Aside from the two of them, only three others remained in the living room. Carlisle had returned to his study, intent on retracing the path of his story. Edward has vanished as soon as he was able; Alice mentioned a human girlfriend (Edward stiffened as she mentioned this, fearful that Harry would either judge him or harm her, perhaps) about which he honestly didn't care. What spiked his attention was the three remaining: Alice, Jasper, and Rosalie sprawled comfortably on the blue velvety coach, absorbed in low whispers and soft hushes.

It was over abruptly when Esme suggested Harry to attend the local high school along with her supposed children. Harry disliked the idea immensely, but it was Rosalie that replied in distaste, "No. No way."

Harry raised her eyebrows. What was it about him in a muggle school that she found so unappealing?

Esme gave her a reprimanding look. "Come to think of it, so should you. You can't stay here forever, Rose, people are bound to notice. And they'll talk. After our sudden return, it's the last thing we need."

"Let them," Rosalie replied with vehemence not directed at Esme. "Nothing is worth relieving the experience."

"Oh, it's not that bad," Alice chastised, taking Jasper's arm in a hug. "Isn't it, Jazz?"

Jasper looked like he agreed with Rosalie, but offered them an indifferent shrug instead.

Harry excused himself (to Esme's "Of course! A growing boy needs his sleep, after all." – Harry would have been offended had she been anyone else) with Rosalie trailing behind him. Truthfully he hadn't felt tired, not at all. But as pleasant as the Cullens were, the constant interaction had tired him. He wondered if any of the others felt this way, since they had no basic necessities as an excuse. But then again, perhaps they had no need for such pretense. With Edward's gift, Alice's talent, and heightened senses, would a lie even be possible?

What would it feel like, never having to lie? Even back then, when days were as dark as nights and Ron and Hermione were all he had, he lied. White lies, yes, to protect them from unneeded burden, he told himself. _It's alright. I'm alright. This will be over soon, I promise you. Trust me. I know what I'm doing._

"_Do you think we'll make it out alive, the three of us?" _Hermione once asked him. _"Tell me, honest. Do you think I can do it?"_

He hadn't slept at all, that night. Neither had Hermione, but she had the comfort of Ron's warmth around her. Ginny had returned home to tend to Molly Weasley's deteriorating health, and Harry was left in coldness. So he was exhausted. He had no energy left to deal with both her and himself. So he lied, and later again and again he did it. The words that came out of his mouth felt like empty deceit.

"_You're the brightest witch of your age,"_ Harry repeated Sirius' words from a time long forgotten. "_You'll succeed. I know it. I trust no one more than I trust you."_

He meant the last part. But it wasn't enough to prevent her blood-soaked body falling on top a screaming, pasty Ron.

"Hey," Rosalie's voice broke through his reveries. Her palm was on the side of his face, and instinctively leaned into it.

"Sorry," Harry smiled a little.

"What were you thinking?" She asked, her hand moving to grasp at his hair. "Tell me?"

Something in his chest fluttered at the realization of how far they had changed. Barely months ago she never would have asked him directly – both had too much pride and distrust for that. She had been a fascinating mystery, then. A beauty with ice that he wanted to melt to look what was inside, a tantalizing puzzle that he would solve and eventually the interest would subside. But then he_ looked _at her; she cut herself open and bared it to him, and he couldn't avert his gaze. He wanted her then, but he longed for her now.

He was hesitant to answer her. Her room had been protected by silencing charm (to Jasper and Edward's displeasure), so it wasn't her family's opinion that he feared, it was hers. His fingers played absentmindedly with hers as he decided to divert, "Why are you so against me going to high school?"

A scowl immediately overtook her features.

"You're averting my question," She accused.

Harry smirked. "And you're averting mine."

"_I'_m the first one to ask."

He sighed, conceding. She smiled in victory as he answered, "All of you have been together for a long time."

Rosalie's eyebrows rose. Whatever it was she expected, it wasn't this. "Yes."

"Have you ever felt the need for… privacy?"

She blinked. Then a laugh escaped her mouth, the sound as sweet as the tea he downed. "Why did you think I left?"

"Disagreement, mostly," Harry admitted.

"There was a disagreement," Rosalie nodded, and Harry's ears perked in interest. "But it was before that. For a while we were divided, Esme and Carlisle, Jasper and Alice, Edward alone in a godforsaken hole in Rochester. It was after we left Forks, leaving Edward's _human girl_. He was the one to decide it, and that decision ended up torturing himself and cutting him from the rest of us. He barely lived then, but he was alive. Until a phone call from Forks changed everything; Alice told us there was news of the girl's death. Edward freaked out, and immediately he wanted to go to Volterra."

"Volterra?"

"A city in Tuscany, Italy. It's where the Volturi resides. They're the equivalent of government in our world, I suppose. Remember the friend Carlisle mentioned, the one with gift to look into other's past thoughts? He's their leader. One of the three."

A chill went down his spine. He felt Death's distaste rolling over the surface of his skin in waves. He hadn't meant for it to show, but Rosalie caught it. Her expression shifted into concern as she asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Harry answered simply. "Please, continue."

Rosalie looked unconvinced, but she let it go. "He wanted to go to the Volturi, because for our kind, suicide isn't possible. The only way to die is to have others kill you. And none of us were willing to do it for him."

Her voice became bitter, towards the end. All of those, over a girl. Though Harry didn't know how he'd react in Edwards' position. What would he do, had it been Rosalie's death?

"I came to him. I _begged _him not to go. He left anyway," Rosalie continued emotionlessly. "In the end, it turned out to be fine. The girl was actually alive, and it was just a _grand _misunderstanding. She flew to Volterra with Alice and miraculously, the three of them made their way back alive. I was grateful at her, then. She saved him when I couldn't. But at the same time, I hated her. And no one else shared my sentiment – my family loved her. I couldn't stand it."

He brought her hands in his to his lips, his chest constricting. He knew what it felt like – to feel so completely alone among those who love you, to hate them and yourself over something out of your power. She had _tried _to accept this human girl, but it wasn't enough. She couldn't, but her family could. She felt out of place in her own home because of something she couldn't change.

Yet, all that was really on his mind was the way Edward was once the center of her attention. He had been the way to make her cry, make her _beg _him to return to her. Had she loved him at some point? Had she loved him then?

He voiced nothing of it aloud, hating insecurity for the complications it made, but it seemed she caught it anyway. She took their hands down, released them so she could place it on the side of his face, swiping to the back of his head. Her eyes softened. "He's my brother, Harry."

He attempted to smile. "I know that."

"We're the same, Edward and I. We think alike, have the same taste, despise the same thing. He's almost the male version of myself – my twin, in a sense. But that is where everything ends. And you – I – it's so damn different, because – "

He silenced her with his lips on hers, relishing at the way her lips slowly forming a smile against his. She appeared so flustered, almost innocent in the way she struggled to tell him what he meant to her, and he thought he didn't really need to know. He didn't know it himself, really. Her entrance in his life had been nothing but expected and hesitance was the one thing he knew for sure he felt for her, but then here they were, sheltered in her _home, _entangled and bound by something neither of them could define.

When he released her, her eyes gave him an inkling of what she had tried to say, and his stomach fluttered at the thought.

"Speaking of my family," Rosalie started, as they lied together on the bed, her head on his shoulder. "I talked with Jasper today."

Harry raised his eyebrows, wondering how she immediately switched to Jasper after that. Then again, her mind worked in a much faster process than his. "Oh?"

She hummed. "Expect an apology any time soon."

"I don't want an apology," He sighed.

"No? Are you sure?"

"It won't change anything," Harry admitted. "I hated what he did to me. I still resent him for it, to be honest. But his apology won't change a thing. Especially when I know you talked him into it."

Rosalie was wordless for a while. He wondered if it was the wrong thing to say about her brother.

"Okay," She conceded. "I'll just tell him to lay off. If he steps out of the line one more time, though – "

"I'll be the one to put him down," Harry said before thinking. "Er – if that's alright with you?"

Her laugh was chiming bells and falling leaves – it made him think of spring. "I expect nothing less."

The silence that fell was as comfortable as their time alone in the tent, when all the world revolved around them, amidst the color of beige, clinking blood and wine, and crackling fireplace. Suddenly, a thought entered his mind. "You haven't answered my question."

At once her body stiffened, immediately knowing what he wanted to know. She feigned ignorance, "Which one?"

He wasn't going to let her out of this, though. "The reason you're so against me going to high school."

She didn't reply instantly. Her fingers fumbled with each other as she looked at them, not meeting his eyes. Harry repositioned himself so they were now side by side, and took her hands.

"Tell me?"

He ducked his head hopefully, so she was forced to look at him. She looked troubled, incredibly so. Harry began to worry until she answered tightly, "I will not have you flocked by a group of brainless, giggling airheads with nothing better to do in their spare time than ogling the new student."

A moment passed, her fingers still in his hold. Harry looked at her, _really _looked at her and the way her eyes refused to meet his. He could almost imagine rosy color in her cheeks, complementing the curl of distaste on her lips. At once, he grinned. "Are you _jealous_?"

The look on her face was absolutely delightful to see. "_Shut up."_

Grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, he pulled her into his chest. She struggled for a while, flustered in the way he had never seen her, but then eventually conceded and rested herself against him. And all of the sudden he became aware of this moment, of this solitude that was somehow present between them. He felt peaceful in the way he hadn't in the past few years, the way he never imagined himself would ever feel. All his life had been a series of gambles and adrenaline, uncertainties and impulsivity. This – whatever this was, this felt like something he couldn't ever get tired of.

Ironically, the moment he started to _think _about peace was when the peace was shattered. There was no commotion, no one breaking through the door, but Rosalie stood straight and listened to what he couldn't hear. At once, her expression turned to distaste.

"It's Edward's little human. A vampire has broken into her house."

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**Terribly sorry for those of you whose reviews I haven't replied. I'll get to them, so if any of the rest of you want to ask anything, I do read and reply to everyone, so go ahead and ask!**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [Muse]**

The Lighthouse and the Whaler - I Want to Feel Alive

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	12. Death and Her Brother

**Anyone who's interested in Harry/Alice pairing and hasn't read my other story, the Seer and the Time Traveler, check it out! It's been rewritten as a one-shot. Their dynamic is a stark contrast with this one - I'd love to hear what you think.**

**Oh, also, there was an issue with my username on tumblr, but it should be fine now, though if you did follow me already then you would need to do it again because that account was deleted... It's janedethrone . tumblr . com (should be working fine now)**

**Aaaaand here's chapter 12. Sit back and relax!**

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**This chapter is beta-ed by the **_**amazing **_**PhoenixFanatic999!**

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_"The devil's right there, right there in the details_

_You don't wanna hurt yourself, hurt yourself_

_By looking too closely"_

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**#12**

**Death and Her Brother**

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Chief Swan's house was a blinding white among the sea of greens, yet it seemed completely in harmony. It was as easy to find as Alice said it would be, even though he was newcomer in this territory. He carefully stepped on iced-glazed path leading to the two-storey house. He had come alone, much to Edward's displeasure, he was sure. The decision had been quick; the urgency left no room for prolonged argument. As soon as Edward's call ended, the Cullens moved with the proficiency of an operational organization. Mundane activities were simultaneously dropped, and each of them (even Rosalie, though the scowl on her face couldn't be more visible) were already out in the forest before long, separating into two groups to search for traces the unknown vampire had left.

As he was, for the lack of the better word, useless in tracking through scent, he had been the one sent to repair the damage. He wasn't sure how grave it was, though, now that he had arrived and the Swan's residence looked so plainly normal that the Dursleys would have given it instant approval.

When he reached the door, he internally debated on whether he should announce his arrival like a proper guest or simply cut to the chase – this girlfriend of his surely had her share of intrusive, otherworldly strangers?

In the end, he knocked. He waited precisely three seconds until the door opened, revealing a disheveled Edward. Vampires usually looked like they were pulling all-nighters every night, but at the moment Edward seemed as if he hadn't slept in a year, with the pronounced circles under his eyes. He wondered why Edward bothered waiting for him to knock; he undoubtedly had heard Harry coming within a mile. Perhaps to not scare the girl – who, Harry noticed, was sitting on a couch five feet away behind him, staring at the two of them. More precisely, him.

"So?" Harry started, when Edward remained quiet. "How bad is it?"

Edward's lips curled. "No physical damage done. What I'm concerned is the security."

Harry nodded. In his panic, Edward had failed to brief them clearly on what had happened. The rest of the Cullens assumed that either the girl or her father had been injured, and with magic as his expertise he was apparently deemed a better healer than Carlisle. Edward moved to give him space and Harry immediately stepped in, taking in the house.

"No damage to the house, either?"

"No," Edward paused. "You can do it? Make some sort of protection barrier?"

The doubt in his voice could be perceived as an offense, but Harry merely sighed. "At the worst scenario, I can put a spell that makes this house disappear from anyone's view unless certain, selected people. I can put up wards that would keep out a particular species, but then it would keep you out too. Or maybe also put notice-me-not charms, which would divert anyone's attention from the house, though it would be hard to explain to the neighbors why the chief's house disappeared overnight, and I'm not sure on its effect on vampire sights. Honestly, the most plausible one is to put a ward that acts like sensor within a mile or so, that if a vampire steps in within the range, we will immediately be notified."

He could see the wheels turning inside of Edward's head. "Physical ward, the one that keeps out all vampires, would be good. And sensor."

"No."

Both Edward and Harry's heads snapped to the timid-looking girl sitting still in the living room, neither expecting her to object. Her tone allowed no compromise, but at the moment she looked like a frightened mouse, staring down two hungry cats.

"Sorry?" Edward asked. Harry glanced at him. Shouldn't he be able to know what she was thinking?

"No keeping out all vampires," She told him. Her head bowed, but she was peering at Edward. "You're not leaving me."

The _not again _was unspoken, and perhaps it was what made Edward concede. Harry remembered what Rosalie had told him last night. This dynamic – this push and pull between Edward and his human girlfriend was what ultimately (however unintended) divided his family before. Edward grunted his approval, and Harry was prepared to cast the ward until he noticed that Bella's hand in bandages underneath her blanket.

"I thought you said no physical injuries?"

Edward's eyes darkened. "That's not from today. It's from one of the dogs."

"Dogs?" Harry repeated blankly.

"_Werewolves," _Bella corrected.

"_What?" _Harry uttered in disbelief, looking back and forth between the two. "Werewolves? There are bloody _werewolves _here and no one bothered to mention them?"

Edward's face wasn't one with hidden secret; he looked as flabbergasted as Harry was. "You're familiar with them?"

"Werewolves have always been a vital part of the wizarding world. Their number isn't huge, but they're ferocious. They were shunned, just years before, but things are getting better for them."

"These werewolves of yours are wizards too?" Edward pressed.

"Aren't yours?"

Edward looked disgusted at the association. "No, they're not. I'd know if they were."

_Muggle werewolves? _It was unheard of, as far as he was aware. The very transformation of werewolves is triggered by magic – how could humans without it manage to shapeshift? Perhaps it _was _magic, but dissimilar to the one he knew, and perhaps they were simply not familiar with the terminology.

Then, he remembered how ruthless some werewolves could be. He turned to the girl in horror. "They didn't _bite _you, did they?"

The two shared puzzled glances. It was the girl that asked, "Bite?"

"Bite. Sink their teeth to your neck, spread their venom and turn you into one of them."

The girl shivered, as if momentarily caught in a memory. Edward growled, and Harry raised his arms in a placating manner – was she already familiar with it, and his words triggered it?

"I thought it was a myth," The girl said again, swallowing thickly. "I mean, I know that's what vampires do. But the pack says they're not like that. The first time they changed, it wasn't because of any bite, it's like a… fever, you know. They're sick for days and by the end of it they're different."

"Maybe they _are _different," Harry mused. "We're from different parts of the world. Terminology may differ."

The girl gave him a small smile, seemingly relieved, but Edward didn't look convinced. Harry took a step toward her – and at once Edward's hand shot to stop him, but before his hand could touch Harry's chest, Harry already caught it.

It was a reflex. But now that Harry held Edward's widened eyes, he didn't release his grip as he said, "I can heal her hand. In a second, it'll be as good as new."

The reply was a low growl. "I don't trust you."

"And I don't trust you. But Rosalie trusts us both. Is that enough for you?"

Harry watched him swallow tightly, torn between the worry for his lover and the loyalty for his sister. In the end, Edward snatched his hand away from Harry's grip and took a step back, allowing Harry to move forward.

After such display, Harry had expected the girl to cower in fear. But at least she held his gaze. Harry gave her a placating half-smile, and she returned it unsurely.

"I won't hurt you," Harry told her. "Can I look at your hand?"

She nodded, moving the blanket away to give him her hand. He wondered what she already knew of him, what she heard. Edward undoubtedly had told her about him, and knowing the vampire (even in such short time), it was probable that she was told the worst version of himself. And yet she seemed to trust him, at least to some degree. The hand that shot out to meet his moved slowly, but it did not tremble.

The first time he saw her, he noticed something familiar about her, but he couldn't place it. Now up close, he saw it – there was something that was characteristically _Neville _in her expression, the way she seemed so afraid but trying so hard to be brave.

It was what made him smile slightly when he waved his wand along the line of her arm, hearing the satisfying _click _of bones snapping back to its origins. There was no surprise in her eyes, only undisguised awe; possibly Edward had told her what he was, but she only now registered the truth of it. She held her healed hand up, straight and strong as new, and exhaled, "Thank you, er—"

"Harry."

She smiled genuinely. "Bella."

He didn't have a chance to reply; at once, his attention shifted. It wasn't a grand entrance of a stranger, neither was it a sudden loud noise – it was something that he couldn't place, and it was precisely why it was alarming. He stood, his eyes roaming their surroundings.

"_Homenum Revelio."_

Nothing. There wasn't a single sound that followed except for the slight fidgeting of Bella's nervous hands. Edward turned to him, alarmed. But Harry asked first, "Can you hear anything out of ordinary?"

He paused, focusing on his senses. Then he shook his head. "No."

"I meant – in your mind. Do you hear anything different?"

The question seemed to disconcert him even further. "No. Why? What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Harry answered. "I just feel… a presence. But there's no one here."

His outburst agitated Edward even more – and he had been a nervous git from the start. Perhaps it was nothing, Harry told himself. Perhaps it was his past catching up to him, the years of paranoia and constant fear. He shook his thoughts and proceeded with placing the ward on the house. It was an intricate piece of work; wards had never been his forte, not even then when there was desperate need for them. But Hermione was the one who taught him, and he used her every little trick and instruction even long after her passing.

When it was done, the three of them returned. Bella came along, though if it was her own wish or Edward's, he could not say. The others were already inside, drowned in heated discussion of low whispers. Harry walked past them and took a cold drink from the fridge (a liberty that Esme had practically forced upon him) and passed another to Bella. At once, Rosalie's eyes directed to him. To them, to the drink between their hands.

He hadn't forgotten her immense dislike toward the girl – how could he, when it was her that tore the ties between Rosalie and Edward? But in his little time interacting with the human, he couldn't see her as anything but an innocent in these schemes. So he looked back at Rosalie, smiling apologetically. She turned away, back to the discussion of their findings.

There had only been one vampire, they concluded. The scent was fresh, barely hours had passed, but it disappeared completely near the territory line (which Carlisle kindly explained to him in passing, of their treaty with the so-called local werewolves). Fading scent wasn't unheard of, especially near the ocean where wind could bring forth a strong scent of its own, but this one hadn't faded. It vanished without a trace.

Another mystery remained – why did the vampire not touch Bella's father, sleeping soundly on the living room couch? It was Bella who voiced this, trembling slightly at the thought of her father pale and bloodless. But no one had answers to that; silence followed, some in frustration, some in sympathy, but it was Esme that took the girl into her arms.

When it came to Edward to inform them of the ward, Harry averted their attention with continuous sip of his tea. Oddly this time Esme wasn't the worse one; it was Carlisle, gazing at him with wide eyes and unabashed awe when he learned what Harry did with Bella's hand.

The discussion ended with no clear goal in sight. The ward he placed had become the primary defense, along with constant patrol by the Cullens. Rosalie didn't bother to hide her disapproval. As well as Edward, when Bella proposed to receive help from the wolves, as they had offered. It was at these moments that Harry realized just how similar the two were. And to this second, he didn't know what he thought of that.

Soundlessly, he walked upstairs. Rosalie's sweet pastel-painted room welcomed him, but the owner was nowhere in sight. She had been the one to retreat first, impatient and frustrated by the turn of events. Harry saw her trail, though, the slight opening of her closet. It was creaking slightly, as if it was herself, taunting him to come instead.

He smiled fondly as he entered the closet. It had been Alice's idea, inspired by one of the fairy tale books she read (and written, though she refused to let Harry read them). The extension charm worked wonders on Rosalie's closet; it had been larger than any usual closet should be, but now it allowed space as huge as his tent. The doors of the closet now led to his study with his bedroom at the far end. There had been musings to configure the rooms, put his small library in Rosalie's room and bring the more personal objects to the privacy the closet provided, but Harry figured they had time.

Expanding a portion of the Cullens house was a statement, whether he intended it or not. It spoke of commitment. It wasn't something that he feared, but he was more comfortable adding an access to his personal space rather than integrating it into the house altogether.

If Rosalie realized, she didn't comment on it. She seemed content enough to slip into the cramped doors of her closet – it had the novelty of adventure that she dreamed of as a child, she told him.

When his study came into view, he saw her sitting at the edge of his desk, a dusty book in hand. He stiffened the moment he recognized which book it was. Was this intended as a slight? She was upset, he knew, but did she know how much her interest in advanced Obliviation bother him – better yet, his reasons for it?

Or perhaps she had been trying to take her mind off tonight's discussion, and her brain turned to the more constant thoughts to entertain. He didn't know which bothered him more.

"There was a letter," Rosalie told him, looking up from her book briefly. Harry relaxed slightly at the lack of discontentment in her eyes.

"Oh?"

"From a George Weasley."

Harry walked to the desk and took the sealed letter on top of it. He played with the seal as he asked her, "What does it say?"

Her eyes danced with mirth, unabashed at being caught. "How do you know?"

"I know you enough," Harry grinned. He didn't mention that George never sealed his letters; he had the habit of putting a dry wax seal on the envelope, but he never told Harry why. Instead, he released the letter from his hand and added softly, "And I know you enough to know you're upset."

She looked down, half-smiling, but her eyes were ice. "New problems, old grudges. God, it sounds as if she's been here forever, when she's only been a part of our lives for one year."

Harry didn't respond, trailing circles at the inside of her wrists.

She scoffed at his lack of reaction, and accused, "You like her."

He carefully treaded, "It's not her fault—"

"Of course it isn't," Rosalie drawled. "Perfect little Bella Swan, the innocent human amidst supernatural chaos that somehow just has to revolve around her."

"She's just a normal girl thrust into situations she doesn't expect," Harry said softly. "I know how that feels."

She turned to meet his eyes, shocked. She looked like she wanted to say more, to list thousands of reasons why Bella Swan was a detestable human being, but relented. Instead, she simply said, "We have a treaty with the wolves, remember? The treaty explicitly says that we shall not _bite _a human in their compound. _Bite, _not kill. The day she becomes one of us, the wolves will come at our doors. Yet at the same time, the Volturi demands her change, for we're forbidden to divulge vampirism to mortals in the first place. The longer her heart beats, the Volturi grows restless. Don't you see? _My _family is an impasse between two blood baths because of one _normal _girl."

His head spun at the information – he hadn't realized the consequences of the human's continuous presence in the Cullen's life. The others didn't seem to be as concerned, with the exception of Edward, but why? Neither option seemed peaceful. Were the others just _trusting_ the couple to do the right thing? At the expense of others?

He liked Bella. He didn't even deny that to Rosalie. He didn't feel the same hatred she felt for her, but he understood it. She didn't, though. She looked at him the way she did at others, prepared for his judgment. He took her face between his hands to force her to look at him.

Her eyes softened, and Harry couldn't resist leaning in.

She tasted like wine, sweet and intoxicating, and he reveled against the heat of her mouth. She was all softness and warmth, flushed against him. He didn't know exactly when his hands settle on her waist. Her hands was gripping on his hair, pulling him closer but they couldn't get close enough. Her tongue licked his bottom lip and his mind shattered, her legs draped over his backside and his entire body burned. Absent-mindedly he remembered the last time they were this close, the last piece of shred between them straining thin, and recalled the way she shrunk fearfully in his arms.

But he was still a man, dammit, driven by lust – and what was she, if not the utmost temptation?

_Rosalie, _a voice in his head answered. She was Rosalie, once a girl who believed in dreams and fairy tales, only to have it torn apart in one night. A girl with a smile that once brought a whole town to her feet, turned into a cold woman with blood on her hands.

She was soft and she was ruthless. She was both beautiful and horrible, loving and hateful, understanding and stubborn, fearful and brave. And he didn't want her any other way.

Had she somehow managed to fulfil her wish, who would she be?

He didn't want to know the answer. He couldn't risk this_, _he couldn't risk her_. _He couldn't risk _them. _Would the new, innocent Rosalie thrill him the way she did now, understand him like no one else? Would she want him, _Harry, just Harry, _if she wasn't so accustomed to pain and fear as she was now?

Was this selfish of him, to not want her to erase her sufferings so he didn't have to face the change in her?

He didn't voice any of this aloud. He didn't tell her any of this, even when she flinched the slightest bit beneath him and he let her go. He said nothing as he kissed her forehead and brought her to his bed, holding her around him as he willed his arousal away.

It was when his mind cleared that he knew he could be patient. Immortality was his ally, after all.

When rays of sunrise assaulted his eyelids, he awoke to an empty bed. He found himself disheartened, but shrugged it off as he quickly cleaned himself and get dressed. It was the first time he awoke without her since the first time they slept together, but he wasn't some lovesick boy unable to start a morning without her presence, he told himself. Still, he couldn't help but ask the moment he was downstairs. The living room was empty, except for Esme and Carlisle.

"She's hunting with Jasper," Esme told him. "Edward, Alice and Bella are at school."

Her words almost made him laugh, for the notion was so ridiculous, but he refrained. His heart lightened at knowing where Rosalie was, but before he could think too much of it, Carlisle stood and asked Harry to follow him to his study.

Just before they entered, the massive painting hung on the hallway caught his eyes. It was of three men standing at a balcony made of old stone with velvet curtains draped behind them. Their eyes, as red as blood, were looking down to what Harry presumed to be their property – be it land, gold or people. It was clear as day what they were; what surprised him instead was the shadow of Carlisle, looming behind them, looking away.

"The Volturi?" Harry guessed.

Carlisle tilted his head in interest. "You've heard of them?"

"Through Rosalie. Before her, not a word."

The man beside him didn't answer for a while, seemingly lost in the memory.

"The Volturi are the equivalent of government in our world. They've existed for thousands of years or so, and are undoubtedly the most powerful coven there is. A royalty, of sort, they enforce the laws of the vampire world keep. It's considered a high honor to be accepted into their ranks. I was there, for a time, and formed friendship with the leader, Aro. My stay could only last so long, with our differences."

"Rosalie told me they want Bella turned."

Carlisle sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid they do. Has Rosalie told you about how it happened, then?"

"Edward attempting suicide by going to Italy after learning of Bella's supposed death?"

"That's one way to summarize it. But yes, yes, Edward went to them and asked them to kill him, but Aro rejected him. Edward's gift is too valuable, especially after he saw firsthand how his gift works, and through that, found Jasper and Alice-"

"Aro - is this the friend you mentioned, the one that could see past thoughts?"

Carlisle confirmed, "Every thought that ever entered your mind, he can see. A truly terrifying gift. That is what deems him the best candidate for a ruler - no misdeeds can remain undetected once probed. Incidentally, that is what triggers his curiosity for Bella. You see, when Bella came for Edward, she faced the entire coven of Volturi. She was nothing in their eyes, barely a scrap on their boots, and the only price she was worth was the blood in her veins. But Aro was curious of this girl that was immune to Edward's talent, and tried to look into this girl's thoughts himself. He didn't succeed."

His mind reeled. "She's immune to him too?"

"Yes. As well as to Jane, the vampire that can manipulate you into thinking you're excruciating pain. And her brother, Alec, who can momentarily deprive you of your own senses."

He nails scraped the inside of his hand. He forced himself to release it, keeping his voice neutral as he asked, "How many are they? The Volturi?"

"The core contains five vampires. Aro, Caius, Marcus. They are the leaders, and ultimately the ones that decide and truly rule the vampire realm. The others are Sulpicia - Aro's wife - and Athenodora, who is Caius'. The rest of them are guards, too many to count. They roam the underground of the entirety of Italy. The royal guards consist of those with talents. Jane and Alec are their best weapons. There is Felix, with immense strength. Demitri, with the talent of tracking - they say no one on this earth can escape him. There is Chelsea, with the talent of creating and snapping bonds, forming and destroying loyalty - I'm sorry, I'm rambling. Looking at this picture made me bask in nostalgia."

"No, it's perfectly fine," Harry assured him. "I find it intriguing. I'm interested in what you think of them, though."

Carlisle glanced at him, surprised, as though he wasn't asked his thoughts often.

"The Volturi are – " Carlisle began uncertainly. Harry couldn't decide if it was out of fear or respect, or something else altogether. "They are harsh, but they are just. We only have one law – to uphold the secrecy of vampires from the world of mortals. So far they have done an excellent job at that. But their reign, I fear, has turned the sense of responsibility into superiority."

"As many others had," Harry shrugged. Again, Carlisle looked at him with great interest, and Harry shifted his feet as he continued, "They have power, so they want even more. They have a penchant for those with talents, don't they? And now they want Edward, Alice and Jasper in their ranks?"

Carlisle'a face turned grim. "Yes. And Bella as well."

Harry's eyebrows rose, "Bella?"

"For vampires with talents, most of them display their prowess while still human, though considerably in much weaker, underdeveloped form. Aro knows this. Bella's underdeveloped talent resists him, how strong will her mind fortress become once she is turned?"

He was silent for a while. He thought of this normal girl, chased by those who wanted her for something she never wanted in the first place, and felt a pang of sympathy. He immediately recovered as an idea appeared in his mind. "Do you know any vampire that was once a wizard?"

Carlisle's face was puzzled, and abruptly Harry winced in shame. "I'm sorry. Of course you don't - I'm sorry, I was just thinking... I read that wizards lost their magic once they are turned, but that bit of information is the only thing they know for sure. Most of the ex-wizards vampires cut ties with wizarding world altogether because of their sudden... Disability, despite of the new set of abilities. But hearing what you said made me wonder if it is possible for some vampires to retain a certain branch of magic they particularly exceled at, as their newfound talents? Do you know anyone that could fit the case?"

Confusion was soon replaced into intrigue. Carlisle hummed, "I knew Edward when he was a human. He had an aptitude for guessing what others were thinking correctly. Jasper was an incredibly charismatic young man that managed to become a major general at nineteen. Alice was..."

Carlisle trailed off, seemingly lost at words. He blinked profusely. "Alice. She has no memories of her past. Her memories started the moment she opened her eyes as a vampire. Perhaps..."

Harry remains quiet for a while. "She remembers nothing?"

"Nothing," he shook his head solemnly. "Though it's not something that bothers her, she claims. She says she's happy now with where she is, why bother digging the past?"

Carlisle was still lost in thoughts even when they were now seated in his study, face to face, a dark leather journal in the older man's hands. His fingers nimbled on the cover before he drifted it across the table. Harry opened it, and found that the writings across the pages were sharp and forceful, marking the papers beneath. Coming from a vampire with centuries worth of practicing surgery, it spoke great volume.

Harry skimmed over the passages. The journal was highly detailed - it covered hours and hours of the three hundred years he had lived, starting from the moment he emerged from a crate of rotten tomatoes, his eyes just as red. It spoke of moments so intimate in Harry's eyes that he felt shame reading it, but Carlisle was looking at him, expecting. There wasn't a single gap for the first two hundred years of his life - the first blank page was numbered 1912.

"It was the year I arrived at Broxburn, Scotland. A small village, at the time. I was enchanted with the idea of leaving townscape and tending to small folks in a quiet place. Leaving my cabin was the last thing I remembered that day."

"You don't remember arriving somewhere?"

"No," Carlisle answered solemnly. "I didn't even remember why I left. The details of that day's memory are hazy. It's almost like I was on autopilot; I'm aware of my movement back then but cannot fanthom the reasons."

Harry gripped the edge of the journal harder, his stomach churning. Could a vampire be under the Imperius Curse?

He entertained the notion briefly. It would have made more sense, to imperio a vampire rather than erasing a vampire's memory. Perhaps whoever this stranger was – he was using Carlisle to a certain extent, and decided to discard him once his effectivity lessened? But why not simply kill him, then? Diving into the mind of a vampire was a tedious experience, he tried it himself, and erasing it would be even more so – certainly too much work, compared to just ending the threat that Carlisle probably grew to be?

What did Carlisle know, and why was he allowed to live?

Carlisle continued, pulling Harry from his inner musings. "It started again in June 1913. A whole year of memory, gone. It was the day I left the village. I have no recollection of my experience in the village. No faces, no names. None. I didn't even remember what I consumed. I could only hope…"

Carlisle swallowed thickly. "But my eyes remained golden, when I left. It is what keeps my conscience clear."

Harry could have told him there were worse things he could have done than submitting to your baser drives, especially when magic was involved, but he kept his tongue leashed. There was no point in twisting the blade; Carlisle still seemed to struggle with licking his newly-found wound. Rubbing his temples, Harry asked, "Is there anything else you remember? Incoherent flashes, anything that should not have been there?"

Carlisle was silent. Harry looked up from the writings in his journal, noticing that Carlisle's silence wasn't due to lack of knowledge. The vampire faltered. Suddenly he looked older than three hundred years.

"You must think me insane," He uttered softly.

Harry leaned in, but he didn't reply. He knew what false encouragements and promises meant, had given more far than he should have, so he was not about to give Carlisle one. Carlisle took a deep breath. "I remember falling asleep."

"I'm sorry?"

Of all the bizarre experiences Carlisle could have told him, Harry didn't expect this. Carlisle continued more firmly, "I remember falling asleep. My eyelids becoming heavy, strength leaving my body. And we do not do that, Harry, not vampires. We _cannot _fall asleep, not for lack of desire to do so, not because we do not need it, but because we simply can't. The heightened working of our brain prevents us from doing so. _We can't fall asleep, _but I remember. It was easier, faster than I remembered as a human, but _I remember."_

It was a huge milestone, to finally remember something out of ordinary in the span of his three centuries of life, but dread was growing inside of Harry to truly appreciate that. A memory he had buried deep inside of his mind resurfaced, from a time almost forgotten.

"_Does it hurt?"_

"_Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep."_

"Harry? Are you alright?"

"Yes," Harry replied automatically. Cogs turning in his mind, he stood. "I… You just gave me something to think about. Give me time to check and work on some things, and we'll continue where we leave this, is that alright?"

"Yes, of course," Carlisle nodded, unabashed by Harry's sudden desire for departure. His eyes softened as Harry made his leave. "Thank you, Harry."

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His feet felt heavy as he dragged them back to his chambers, his heartbeat banging in his chest. Neither Carlisle nor Esme commented on it, but if they did, he couldn't have cared, not at this moment. The only thing he had in his mind was _Death, _and the answers he would not be denied.

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**Anyone else feel that ffnet should have the same leniency as ao3, in terms of inserting pictures, banners, font, and layout? Jumping between the two sites made me a bit frustrated, tbh - I've edited some pictures for my stories but no idea how and where to post it.**

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**Song Quoted in This Chapter [Muse]**

Fink - Looking Too Closely

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**Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome. Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.**


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